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JAN  AND  HER  JOB 


''But  surely,"  said  Peter,  "I  am  your  job — part  of  it, 
anyway." 


JAN  AND  HER  JOB 


BY 


L.    ALLEN    HARKER 

AUTHOR  07  "A  BOMANCE  OP  THE  NCKSEBT";   "  MISS  ESPEBAXCE  AND  MB.  WYCHEBLT ' 

"KB.  WTCHEBLT'S  WABDB";  "THE  FFOLLJOTS  or  BEDMAHLEY,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1917 


COPTKIGHT,  1917,  BT 
CHAHLES  SCRIBNEB'S  SONS 


Published  March,  1917 


TO 

F.  R.  P. 

'  Chary  of  praise  and  prodigal  of  counsel- 
Who  but  thou  ?  " 

R.  L.  S. 


999O9On 

A*l/Vj«--H<   ^    £<jt**i\J 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    JAN 1 

II.    JAN'S  MAIL 13 

III.  BOMBAY 19 

IV.  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  JOB 39 

V.    THE  CHILDREN 52 

VI.    THE  SHADOW  BEFORE 62 

VII.    THE  HUMAN  TOUCH 78 

VIII.    THE  END  OF  THE  DBEAM 91 

IX.    MEG 97 

X.    PLANS 124 

XI.    THE  STATE  OF  PETEE 139 

XII.    "THE  BEST-LAID  SCHEMES" 149 

XIII.  THE  WHEELS  OF  CHANCE 162 

XIV.  PERPLEXITIES 173 

XV.    WREN'S  END 184 

XVI.    "THE  BLUDGEONINGS  OF  CHANCE"    ....  201 

XVII.    "THOUGH  AN  HOST  SHOULD  ENCAMP  AGAINST 

ME" 212 

vii 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.  MEG  AND  CAPTAIN  MIDDLETON 220 

XIX.  THE  YOUNG  IDEA 240 

XX.  "ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE" 252 

XXI.  ANOTHER  WAT  OF  LOVE 261 

XXII.  THE  ENCAMPMENT 276 

XXIII.  TACTICS 287 

XXIV.  "  THE  WAT  OF  A  MAN  WITH  A  MAID  "     .     .  303 
XXV.  A  DEMONSTRATION  IN  FORCE 325 

XXVI.  IN  WHICH  SEVERAL  PEOPLE  SPEAK  THEIR  MINDS    339 

XXVII.  AUGUST,  1914  351 


Vlll 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"But  surely,"  said  Peter,  "I  am  your  job — part  of  it, 

anyway" Frontispiece 

FACING 

PAGE 

"It  would  make  it  easier  for  both  of  us  if  you'd  face  it, 

my  dear " 66 

He  washed  his  small  sister  with  thoroughness  and  des- 
patch, pointing  out  .  .  .  that  he  "went  into  all  the 
corners" 156 

William  rushed  out  to  welcome  the  strangers.    Two  .  .  . 

nice  children  188 


JAN  AND  HER  JOB 


CHAPTER  I 

JAN 

SHE  was  something  of  a  puzzle  to  the  other 
passengers.    They  couldn't  quite  place  her. 
She  came  on  board  the  P.  and  0.  at  Marseilles. 
JBeing  Christmas  week  the  boat  was  not  crowded, 
and  she  had  a  cabin  to  herself  on  the  spar  deck, 
so  there  was  no  "stable-companion"  to  find  out 
anything  about  her. 

The  sharp-eyed  Australian  lady,  who  sat  op- 
posite her  at  the  Purser's  table,  decided  that  she 
was  not  married,  or  even  engaged,  as  she  wore 
no  rings  of  any  kind.  Besides,  her  name,  "Miss 
Janet  Ross,"  figured  in  the  dinner-list  and  was 
plainly  painted  on  her  deck-chair.  At  meals  she 
sat  beside  the  Purser,  and  seemed  more  or  less 
under  his  wing.  People  at  her  table  decided  that 
she  couldn't  be  going  out  as  a  governess  or  she 
would  hardly  be  travelling  first  class,  and  yet 
she  did  not  look  of  the  sort  who  globe-trot  all 
by  themselves. 

Rather  tall,  slender  without  being  thin,  she 
moved  well.  Her  ringless  hands  were  smooth 
and  prettily  shaped,  so  were  her  slim  feet,  and 
always  singularly  well-shod. 

1 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Perhaps  her  chief  outward  characteristic  was 
that  she  looked  delightfully  fresh  and  clean.  Her 
fair  skin  helped  to  this  effect,  and  the  trim  suit- 
ability of  her  clothes  accentuated  it.  And  yet 
there  was  nothing  challenging  or  particularly  no- 
ticeable in  her  personality. 

Her  face,  fresh-coloured  and  unlined,  was  rather 
round.  Her  eyes  well-opened  and  blue-grey,  long- 
sighted and  extremely  honest.  Her  hair,  thick 
and  naturally  wavy,  had  been  what  hairdressers 
call  "mid-brown,"  but  was  now  frankly  grey, 
especially  round  the  temples;  and  the  grey  hair 
puzzled  people,  so  that  opinions  differed  widely 
regarding  her  age. 

The  five  box-wallahs  (gentlemen  engaged  in 
commercial  pursuits  are  so  named  in  the  East  to 
distinguish  them  from  the  Heaven-Born  in  the 
various  services  that  govern  India),  who,  with  the 
Australian  lady,  sat  opposite  to  her  at  table,  de- 
cided that  she  was  really  young  and  prematurely 
grey.  Between  the  courses  they  diligently  took 
stock  of  her.  The  Australian  lady  disagreed  with 
them.  She  declared  Miss  Ross  tb  be  middle- 
aged,  to  look  younger  than  she  was.  In  this  the 
Australian  lady  was  quite  sincere.  She  could  not 
conceive  of  any  young  woman  neglecting  the 
many  legitimate  means  that  existed  of  combating 
this  most  distressing  semblance — if  semblance  it 
was — of  age. 

The  Australian  lady  set  her  down  as  a  well- 
preserved  forty  at  least. 

Mr.  Frewellen,  the  oldest  and  Grossest  and 
greediest  of  the  five  box-wallahs,  declared  that 

2 


Jan 

he  would  lay  fifteen  rupees  to  five  annas  that 
she  was  under  thirty;  that  her  eyes  were  sad,  and 
it  was  probably  trouble  that  had  turned  her  hair. 
At  his  time  of  life,  he  could  tell  a  young  woman 
when  he  saw  one.  No  painted  old  harridan  could 
deceive  him.  After  all,  if  Miss  Ross  had  grey 
hair,  she  had  plenty  of  it,  and  it  was  her  own. 
But  Mr.  Frewellen,  who  sat  directly  opposite  her, 
was  prejudiced  in  her  favour,  for  she  always  let 
him  take  her  roll  if  it  was  browner  than  his  own. 
He  also  took  her  knife  if  it  happened  to  be  sharper 
than  the  one  he  had,  and  he  insisted  on  her 
listening  to  his  incessant  grumbling  as  to  the 
food,  the  service,  the  temperature,  and  the  gen- 
eral imbecility  and  baseness  of  his  fellow- 
creatures. 

Like  the  Ancient  Mariner,  he  held  her  with  his 
glittering  spectacles.  Miss  Ross  trembled  before 
his  diatribes.  He  spoke  in  a  loud  and  rumbling 
voice,  and  made  derogatory  remarks  about  the 
other  passengers  as  they  passed  to  their  respective 
tables.  She  would  thankfully  have  changed  hers, 
but  that  it  might  have  seemed  ungrateful  to  the 
Purser,  into  whose  charge  she  had  been  given  by 
friends;  and  the  Purser  had  been  most  kind  and 
attentive. 

The  Australian  lady  was  sure  that  the  Purser 
knew  more  about  Miss  Ross  than  he  would  ac- 
knowledge— which  he  did.  But  when  tackled  by 
one  passenger  about  another,  he  was  discreet  or 
otherwise  in  direct  ratio  to  what  he  considered 
was  the  discretion  of  the  questioner.  And  he 
was  a  pretty  shrewd  judge  of  character.  He  had 

3 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

infinite  opportunities  of  so  judging.  A  sea- 
voyage  lays  bare  many  secrets  and  shows  up 
human  nature  at  its  starkest. 

Janet  Ross  did  not  seek  to  make  friends,  but 
kindly  people  who  spoke  to  her  found  her  pleas- 
ant and  not  in  the  least  disposed  to  be  mysteri- 
ous when  questioned,  though  she  never  volun- 
teered any  information  about  herself.  She  was  a 
good  listener,  and  about  the  middle  of  any  voyage 
that  is  a  quality  supplying  a  felt  want.  Mankind 
in  general  finds  his  own  doings  very  interesting, 
and  takes  great  pleasure  in  recounting  the  same. 
Even  the  most  energetic  young  passenger  cannot 
play  deck-quoits  all  day,  and  mixed  cricket 
matches  are  too  heating  to  last  long  once  Aden 
is  left  behind.  A  great  many  people  found  it 
pleasant  to  drop  into  a  chair  beside  the  quiet  lady, 
who  was  always  politely  interested  hi  their  re- 
marks. She  looked  so  cool  and  restful  in  her 
white  frock  and  shady  hat.  She  did  not  buy  a 
solar  topee  at  Port  Said,  for  though  this  was  her 
first  voyage  she  had  not,  it  seemed,  started  quite 
unwarned. 

In  the  middle  of  the  Indian  Ocean  she  suddenly 
found  favour  in  the  eyes  of  Sir  Langham  Sykes, 
and  when  that  was  the  case  Sir  Langham  pro- 
claimed his  preference  to  the  whole  ship.  No 
one  who  attracted  his  notice  could  remain  in  ob- 
scurity. When  he  was  not  eating  he  was  talking, 
generally  about  himself,  though  he  was  also  fond 
of  asking  questions. 

A  short,  stout  man  with  a  red  face,  little  fierce 
blue  eyes,  a  booming  voice,  noisy  laugh  and  a 

4 


Jan 

truculent,  domineering  manner,  Sir  Langham 
made  his  presence  felt  wherever  he  was. 

It  was  "her  shape,"  as  he  called  it,  that  first 
attracted  his  attention  to  Miss  Ross,  as  he 
watched  her  walking  briskly  round  and  round 
the  hurricane-deck  for  her  morning  constitutional. 

"That  woman  moves  well,"  he  remarked  to 
his  neighbour;  "wonder  if  she's  goin'  out  to  be 
married.  Nice-looking  woman  and  pleasant,  no 
frills  about  her — sort  that  would  be  kind  in  ill- 
ness." 

And  Sir  Langham  sighed.  He  couldn't  take 
any  exercise  just  then,  for  his  last  attack  of  gout 
had  been  very  severe,  and  his  left  foot  was  still 
swathed  and  slippered. 

There  was  a  dance  that  night  on  the  hurricane- 
deck,  and  Sir  Langham,  while  watching  the 
dancers,  talked  at  the  top  of  his  voice  with  the 
more  important  lady  passengers.  On  such  occa- 
sions he  claimed  close  intimacy  with  the  Reign- 
ing House,  and  at  all  times  of  day  one  heard  such 
sentences  as,  "And  7  said  to  the  Princess  Hen- 
rietta," with  a  full  account  of  what  he  did  say. 
And  the  things  he  declared  he  said,  and  the  stories 
he  told,  certainly  suggested  a  doubt  as  to  whether 
the  ladies  of  our  Royal  Family  are  quite  as  strait- 
laced  as  the  ordinary  public  is  led  to  believe. 
But  then  one  had  only  Sir  Langham's  word  for 
it.  There  was  no  possibility  of  questioning  the 
Princess. 

Presently  Sir  Langham  got  tired  of  trying  to 
drown  the  band — it  was  such  a  noisy  band — and 
he  hobbled  down  the  companion  on  to  the  almost 

5 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

deserted  deck.  Right  up  in  the  stern  he  spied 
Miss  Ross,  quite  alone,  sitting  under  an  electric 
light  absorbed  in  a  book.  Beside  her  was  an 
empty  chair  with  a  comfortable  leg-rest.  Sir 
Langham  never  made  any  bones  about  interrupt- 
ing people.  It  would  not,  to  him,  have  seemed 
possible  that  a  woman  could  prefer  any  form  of 
literature  to  the  charm  of  his  conversation.  So 
with  a  series  of  grunts  he  lowered  himself  into  it, 
arranged  his  foot  upon  the  rest,  and,  without  ask- 
ing permission,  lit  a  cigar. 

"Don't  you  care  for  dancin'?"  he  asked. 

She  closed  her  book.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  said, 
"but  I  don't  know  many  men  on  board,  and  there 
are  such  a  lot  of  young  people  who  do  know  one 
another.  It's  pretty  to  watch  them;  but  the 
night  is  pretty,  too,  don't  you  think?  The  stars 
all  seem  so  near  compared  to  what  they  do  at 
home." 

"I've  seen  too  many  Eastern  nights  to  take 
much  stock  in  'em  now,"  he  said  in  a  disparaging 
voice.  "I  take  it  this  is  all  new  to  you — first 
voyage,  eh?" 

"  Yes,  I've  never  been  a  long  voyage  before." 

"  Goin'  to  India,  I  suppose.  You'd  have  started 
sooner  if  you'd  been  goin'  for  the  winter  to  Aus- 
tralia. Now  what  are  you  goin'  to  India  for  f " 

"To  stay  with  my  sister." 

"Married  sister?" 

"Yes." 

"Older  than  you,  then,  of  course." 

"No,  younger." 

"Much  younger?" 

6 


Jan 

"  Three  years." 

"Is  she  like  you?" 

"Not  in  the  least.     She  is  a  beautiful  person." 

"Been  married  long?" 

"Between  five  and  six  years.  I'm  to  take  her 
home  at  the  end  of  the  cold  weather." 

"Any  kids?" 

"Two." 

"And  you  haven't  been  out  before?" 

"No;  this  is  my  first  visit." 

"She's  been  home,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  once." 

"Is  her  husband  in  the  Army?" 

"No." 

Had  Sir  Langham  been  an  observant  person  he 
would  have  noted  that  her  very  brief  replies  did 
not  exactly  encourage  further  questions.  But 
his  idea  of  conversation  was  either  a  monologue 
or  a  means  of  obtaining  information,  so  he  in- 
stantly demanded,  "What  does  her  husband  do?" 

The  impulse  of  the  moment  urged  her  to  reply, 
"What  possible  business  is  it  of  yours  what  he 
does?"  But  well-bred  people  do  not  yield  to 
these  impulses,  so  she  answered  quietly,  "He's  in 
the  P.W.D." 

"Not  a  bad  service,  not  a  bad  service,  though 
not  equal  to  the  I.C.S.  They've  had  rather  a 
scandal  in  it  lately.  Didn't  you  see  about  it  in 
the  papers  just  before  we  left?" 

At  that  moment  Sir  Langham  was  very  care- 
fully flicking  the  ash  from  the  end  of  his  cigar, 
otherwise  he  might  have  observed  that  as  he 
spoke  his  companion  flushed.  A  wave  of  warm 

7 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

colour  surged  over  her  face  and  bare  neck  and 
receded  again,  leaving  her  very  pale.  Her  hands 
closed  over  the  book  lying  in  her  lap,  as  if  glad  to 
hold  on  to  something,  and  their  knuckles  were 
white  against  the  tan. 

" Didn't  you  see  it?"  he  repeated.  "Some 
chap  been  found  to  have  taken  bribes  over  con- 
tracts in  a  native  state.  Regular  rumpus  there's 
been.  Quite  right,  too;  we  sahibs  must  have 
clean  hands.  No  dealing  with  brown  people  if 
you  haven't  clean  hands — can't  have  rupees  stick- 
ing to  'em  in  any  Government  transactions.  Ex- 
pect you'll  hear  all  about  it  when  you  get  out 
there — makes  a  great  sensation  in  any  service 
does  that  sort  of  thing.  I  don't  remember  the 
name  of  the  chap — perhaps  they  didn't  give  it- 
do  you?" 

"I  didn't  see  anything  about  it,"  she  said 
quietly.  "I  was  very  busy  just  before  I  left,  and 
hardly  looked  at  a  paper." 

"Where  is  your  sister?" 

"In  Bombay." 

"Oh,  got  a  billet  there,  has  he?  Expect  you'll 
like  Bombay;  cheery  place,  in  the  cold  weather, 
but  not  a  patch  on  Calcutta,  to  my  mind.  I 
hear  the  Governor  and  his  wife  do  the  thing  in 
style — hospitable,  you  know;  got  private  means, 
as  people  in  that  position  always  ought  to  have." 

"I  don't  suppose  I  shall  go  out  at  all,"  she  said. 
"My  sister  is  ill,  and  I've  got  to  look  after  her. 
Directly  she  is  strong  enough  to  travel  I  shall 
bring  her  home." 

"Oh,  you  must  see  something  of  the  social  life 
8 


Jan 

of  the  place  while  you're  there.  D'you  know 
what  I  thought?  I  thought  you  were  goin'  out 
to  get  married,  and" — he  continued  gallantly — 
"I  thought  he  was  a  deuced  lucky  chap." 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  She  was  not 
looking  at  Sir  Langham,  but  at  the  long,  white, 
moonlit  pathway  of  foam  left  in  the  wake  of  the 
ship. 

"I  say,"  he  went  on  confidentially,  "what's 
your  Christian  name?  I'm  certain  they  don't 
call  you  Janet.  Is  it  Nettie,  now?  I  bet  it's 
Nettie!" 

"My  family,"  said  Miss  Ross  somewhat  coldly, 
"call  me  Jan." 

"Nice  little  name,"  he  exclaimed,  "but  more 
like  a  boy's.  Now,  I  never  got  a  pet  name.  I 
started  Langham,  and  Langham  I've  stopped, 
and  I  flatter  myself  I've  made  the  name  known 
and  respected." 

He  wanted  her  to  look  at  him,  and  leaned  to- 
wards her:  "Look  here,  Miss  Ross,  I'm  goin'  to 
ask  you  a  funny  question,  and  it's  not  one  you 
can  ask  most  women — but  you're  a  puzzle. 
You've  got  a  face  like  a  child,  and  yet  you're  as 
grey  as  a  badger.  What  is  your  age?" 

"I  shall  be  twenty-eight  in  March." 

She  looked  at  him  then,  and  her  grey  eyes  were 
so  full  of  amusement  that,  incredulous  as  he 
usually  was  as  to  other  people's  statements,  he 
knew  that  she  was  speaking  the  truth. 

"Then  why  the  devil  don't  you  do  something 
to  it?"  he  demanded. 

She  laughed.  "I  couldn't  be  bothered.  And 
9 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

it  might  turn  green,  or  something.  I  don't  mind 
it.  It  began  when  I  was  twenty-three." 

"/  don't  mind  it  either,"  Sir  Langham  declared 
magnanimously;  "but  it's  misleading." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  demurely.  "I  wouldn't 
mislead  anyone  for  the  world." 

"Now,  what  age  should  you  think  I  am?  But 
I  suppose  you  know — that's  the  worst  of  being  a 
public  character;  when  one  gets  nearly  a  column 
hi  Who's  Who,  everybody  knows  all  about  one. 
That's  the  penalty  of  celebrity." 

"Do  you  mind  people  knowing  your  age?" 

"Not  I!  Nor  anything  else  about  me.  I've 
never  done  anything  to  be  ashamed  of.  Quite 
the  other  way,  I  can  assure  you." 

"How  pleasant  that  must  be,"  she  said  quietly. 

Sir  Langham  turned  and  looked  suspiciously  at 
her;  but  her  face  was  guileless  and  calm,  with  no 
trace  of  raillery,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  long 
bright  track  of  foam. 

"I  suppose  you,  now,"  he  muttered  hoarsely, 
"always  sleep  well,  go  off  directly  you  turn  in— 
eh?" 

Her  quiet  eyes  met  his;  little  and  fierce  and 
truculent,  but  behind  then:  rather  bloodshot 
boldness  there  lurked  something  else,  and  with  a 
sudden  pang  of  pity  she  knew  that  it  was  fear, 
and  that  Sir  Langham  dreaded  the  night. 

"As  a  rule  I  do,"  she  said  gently;  "but  of 
course  I've  known  what  it  is  to  be  sleepless,  and 
it's  horrid." 

"It's  hell,"  said  Sir  Langham,  "and  I'm  in  it 
every  night  this  voyage,  for  I've  knocked  off 

10 


Jan 

morphia  and  opiates — they  were  playing  the 
deuce  with  my  constitution,  and  I've  strength  of 
mind  for  anything  when  I  fairly  take  hold.  But 
it's  awful.  When  d'you  suppose  natural  sleep 
will  come  back?" 

She  knew  that  he  did  not  lack  physical  courage, 
that  he  had  fearlessly  faced  great  dangers  in 
many  outposts  of  the  world;  but  the  demon  of 
insomnia  had  got  a  hold  of  Sir  Langham,  and  he 
dreaded  the  night  unspeakably.  At  that  mo- 
ment there  was  something  pathetic  about  the  lit- 
tle, boastful,  filibustering  man. 

"I  think  you  will  sleep  to-night,"  she  said  con- 
fidently, "especially  if  you  go  to  bed  early." 

She  half  rose  as  she  spoke,  but  he  put  his  hand 
on  her  arm  and  pressed  her  down  in  her  chair 
again. 

"Don't  go  yet,"  he  cried.  "Keep  on  tellin'  me 
I'll  sleep,  and  then  perhaps  I  shall.  You  look  as 
if  you  could  will  people  to  do  things.  You're 
that  quiet  sort.  Will  me,  there's  a  good  girl. 
Tell  me  again  I'll  sleep  to-night." 

It  was  getting  late;  the  music  had  stopped  and 
the  dancers  had  disappeared.  Miss  Ross  did  not 
feel  over  comfortable  alone  with  Sir  Langham  so 
far  away  from  everybody  else.  Especially  as 
she  saw  he  was  excited  and  nervous.  Had  he 
been  drinking?  she  wondered.  But  she  remem- 
bered that  he  had  proclaimed  far  and  wide  that, 
because  of  his  gout,  he'd  made  a  vow  to  touch 
no  form  of  "alcoholic  liquor"  on  the  voyage,  ex- 
cept on  Christmas  and  New  Year's  Day.  It  was 
six  days  since  Christmas,  and  already  Aden  was 

11 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

left  behind.  No,  it  was  just  sheer  nervous  ex- 
citement, and  if  she  could  do  him  any  good  .  .  . 

"I  feel  sure  you  will  sleep  to-night,"  she  said 
soothingly,  "if  you  will  do  as  I  tell  you." 

"I'll  do  any  mortal  thing.  I've  got  a  deck- 
cabin  to  myself.  Will  you  keep  willin'  me  when 
you  turn  in?" 

"Go  to  bed  now,"  she  said  firmly.  "Undress 
quickly,  and  then  think  about  nothing  .  .  .  and 
I'll  do  the  rest." 

"You  will,  you  promise?" 

"Yes,  but  you  must  keep  your  mind  a  perfect 
blank,  or  I  can't  do  anything." 

She  stood  up  tall  and  straight.  The  moonlight 
caught  her  grey  hair  and  burnished  it  to  an 
aureole  of  silver. 

With  many  grunts  Sir  Langham  pulled  himself 
out  of  his  chair.  "No  smokin'-room,  eh?" 

"Good  night,"  Miss  Ross  said  firmly,  and  left 
him. 

"Don't  forget  to  ask  your  sister's  husband 
about  that  chap  in  the  P.W.D.,"  he  called  after 
her.  "He's  sure  to  know  all  about  it.  What's 
his  name? — your  brother-in-law,  I  mean." 

But  Miss  Ross  had  disappeared. 

"Now  how  the  devil,"  he  muttered,  "am  I  to 
make  my  mind,  my  mind,  a  perfect  blank?" 

Two  hours  later  Sir  Langham's  snores  griev- 
ously disturbed  the  occupants  of  adjacent  cabins. 

In  hers,  Miss  Ross  sat  by  the  open  porthole 
reading  and  re-reading  the  mail  that  had  reached 
her  at  Aden. 


12 


CHAPTER  II 

JAN'S  MAIL 

Bombay,  December  13th. 
TV/TY  DEAR  JAN, 

*•**-  It  was  a  great  relief  to  get  your  cable  say- 
ing definitely  that  you  were  sailing  by  the  Cam- 
duff.  Misfortunes  seem  to  have  come  upon  us 
in  such  numbers  of  late  that  I  dreaded  lest  your 
departure  might  be  unavoidably  delayed  or  pre- 
vented. I  will  not  now  enter  into  the  painful 
question  of  my  shameful  treatment  by  Govern- 
ment, but  you  can  well  understand  that  I  shall 
leave  no  stone  unturned  to  reverse  then*  most 
unfair  and  unjust  decision,  and  to  bring  my  tra- 
ducers  to  book.  Important  business  having  ref- 
erence to  these  matters  calls  me  away  at  once,  as 
I  feel  it  is  most  essential  not  to  lose  a  moment, 
my  reputation  and  my  whole  future  being  at 
stake.  I  shall  therefore,  to  my  great  regret,  be 
unable  to  meet  you  on  your  arrival  in  Bombay, 
and,  as  my  movements  for  the  next  few  months 
will  be  rather  uncertain,  I  may  find  it  difficult 
to  let  you  have  regular  news  of  me.  I  would 
therefore  advise  you  to  take  Fay  and  the  children 
home  as  soon  as  all  is  safely  over  and  she  is  able 
to  travel,  and  I  will  join  you  in  England  if  and 
when  I  find  I  can  get  away.  I  know,  dear  Jan, 
that  you  will  not  mind  financing  Fay  to  this 

13 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

extent  at  present;  as,  owing  to  these  wholly  un- 
expected departmental  complications,  I  am  un- 
commonly hard  up.  I  will,  of  course,  repay  you 
at  the  earliest  possible  opportunity. 

Poor  Fay  is  not  at  all  well;  all  these  worries 
have  been  very  bad  for  her,  and  I  have  been  dis- 
tracted by  anxiety  on  her  behalf,  as  well  as  about 
my  own  most  distressing  position,  and  a  severe 
attack  of  fever  has  left  me  weak  and  ailing.  I 
thought  it  better  to  bring  Fay  down  to  Bombay, 
where  she  can  get  the  best  medical  advice,  and 
her  being  there  will  save  you  the  long,  tiresome 
journey  to  Dariawarpur.  It  is  also  most  conve- 
nient for  going  home.  She  is  installed  in  a  most 
comfortable  flat,  and  we  brought  our  own  ser- 
vants, so  I  hope  you  will  feel  that  I  have  done 
my  best  for  her. 

Fay  will  explain  the  whole  miserable  business 
to  you,  and  although  appearances  may  be  against 
me,  I  trust  that  you  will  realise  how  misleading 
these  may  be.  I  cannot  thank  you  enough  for 
responding  so  promptly  to  our  ardently  expressed 
desire  for  your  presence  at  this  difficult  time.  It 
will  make  all  the  difference  in  the  world  to  Fay; 
and,  on  her  account,  to  me  also. 

Believe  me,  always  yours  affectionately, 

HUGO  TANCRED. 

Bombay,  Friday. 

Jan  my  dear,  my  dear,  are  you  really  on  your 
way?  And  shall  I  see  your  face  and  hear  your 
kind  voice,  and  be  able  to  cry  against  your 
shoulder  ? 

14 


Jan's  Mail 

I  can't  meet  you,  my  precious,  because  I  don't 
go  out.  I'm  afraid.  Afraid  lest  I  should  see  any- 
one who  knew  us  at  Dariawarpur.  India  is  so 
large  and  so  small,  and  people  from  everywhere 
are  always  in  Bombay,  and  I  couldn't  bear  it. 

Do  you  know,  Jan,  that  when  the  very  worst 
has  happened,  you  get  kind  of  numbed.  You 
can't  suffer  any  more.  You  can't  be  sorry  or 
angry  or  shocked  or  indignant,  or  anything  but 
just  broken,  and  that's  what  I  am. 

After  all,  I've  one  good  friend  here  who  knew 
us  at  Dariawarpur.  He's  got  a  job  at  the  secre- 
tariat, and  he  tries  to  help  me  all  he  can.  I  don't 
mind  him  somehow.  He  understands.  He  will 
meet  you  and  bring  you  to  the  bungalow,  so  look 
out  for  him  when  the  boat  gets  in.  He's  tall  and 
thin  and  clean-shaven  and  yellow,  with  a  grave, 
stern  face  and  beautiful  kind  eyes.  Peter  is  an 
angel,  so  be  nice  to  him,  Jan  dear.  It  has  been 
awful;  it  will  go  on  being  awful;  but  it  will  be  a 
little  more  bearable  when  you  come — for  me,  I 
mean — for  you  it  will  be  horrid.  All  of  us  on 
your  hands,  and  no  money,  and  me  such  a  crock, 
and  presently  a  new  baby.  The  children  are 
well.  It's  so  queer  to  think  you  haven't  seen 
"little  Fay."  Come  soon,  Jan,  come  soon,  to 
your  miserable  FAY. 

Jan  sat  on  her  bunk  under  the  open  porthole. 
One  after  the  other  she  held  the  letters  open  in 
her  hand  and  stared  at  them,  but  she  did  not 
read.  The  sentences  were  burnt  into  her  brain 
already. 

15 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Hugo  Tancred's  letter  was  dated.  Fay's  was 
not,  and  neither  letter  bore  any  address  in  Bom- 
bay. Now,  Jan  knew  that  Bombay  is  a  large 
town;  and  that  people  like  the  Tancreds,  who,  if 
not  actually  in  hiding,  certainly  did  not  seek  to 
draw  attention  to  then'  movements,  would  be 
hard  to  find.  Fay  had  wholly  omitted  to  men- 
tion the  surname  of  the  tall,  thin,  yellow  man 
with  the  "grave,  stern  face  and  beautiful  kind 
eyes."  Even  in  the  midst  of  her  poignant  anxiety 
Jan  found  herself  smiling  at  this.  It  was  so  like 
Fay — so  like  her  to  give  no  address.  And  should 
the  tall,  thin  gentleman  fail  to  appear,  what  was 
Jan  to  do?  She  could  hardly  go  about  the  ship 
asking  if  one  "Peter"  had  come  to  fetch  her. 

How  would  she  find  Fay  ? 

Would  they  allow  her  to  wait  at  the  landing- 
place  till  someone  came,  or  were  there  stringent 
regulations  compelling  passengers  to  leave  the 
docks  with  the  utmost  speed,  as  most  of  them 
would  assuredly  desire  to  do? 

She  knitted  her  brows  and  worried  a  good  deal 
about  this;  then  suddenly  put  the  question  from 
her  as  too  trivial  when  there  were  such  infinitely 
greater  problems  to  solve. 

Only  one  thing  was  clear.  One  central  fact 
shone  out,  a  beacon  amidst  the  gloom  of  the  "de- 
partmental complications"  enshrouding  the  con- 
duct of  Hugo  Tancred,  the  certainty  that  he  had, 
for  the  present  anyway,  shifted  the  responsibility 
of  his  family  from  his  own  shoulders  to  hers.  As 
she  sat  square  and  upright  under  the  porthole, 
with  the  cool  air  from  an  inserted  "wind-sail" 

16 


Jan's  Mail 

ruffling  her  hair,  she  looked  as  though  she  braced 
herself  to  the  burden. 

She  wished  she  knew  exactly  what  had  hap- 
pened, what  Hugo  Tancred  had  actually  done. 
For  some  years  she  had  known  that  he  was  by 
no  means  scrupulous  hi  money  matters,  and  that 
very  evening  Sir  Langham  had  made  it  clear  to 
her  that  this  crookedness  had  not  stopped  short 
at  his  official  work.  There  had  been  a  scandal, 
so  far-reaching  a  scandal  that  it  had  got  into  the 
home  papers. 

This  struck  Jan  as  rather  extraordinary,  for 
Hugo  Tancred  was  by  no  means  a  stupid  man. 

It  is  one  thing  to  be  pleasantly  oblivious  of 
private  debts,  to  omit  cheques  hi  repayment  of 
various  necessaries  got  at  the  Stores  by  an  oblig- 
ing sister-in-law.  One  thing  to  muddle  away  hi 
wild-cat  speculations  a  wife's  money  that,  but  for 
the  procrastination  of  an  easy-going  father,  would 
have  been  tightly  tied  up — quite  another  to  bring 
himself  so  nearly  within  the  clutches  of  the  law  as 
to  make  it  possible  for  the  Government  of  India 
to  dismiss  him. 

And  what  was  he  to  do?  What  did  the  future 
hold  for  him? 

Who  would  give  employment  to  however  able 
a  man  with  such  a  career  behind  him? 

Jan's  imagination  refused  to  take  such  flights. 
Resolutely  she  put  the  subject  from  her  and  be- 
gan to  consider  what  her  own  best  course  would 
be  with  Fay,  her  nephew  and  niece,  and,  very 
shortly,  a  new  baby  on  her  hands. 

Jan  was  not  a  young  woman  to  let  things  drift. 
17 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

She  had  kept  house  for  a  whimsical,  happy-go- 
lucky  father  since  she  was  fourteen;  mothered  her 
beautiful  young  sister;  and,  at  her  father's  death, 
two  years  before,  had  with  quiet  decision  ar- 
ranged her  own  life,  wholly  avoiding  the  discus- 
sion and  the  friction  which  generally  are  the  lot 
of  an  unmarried  woman  of  five-and-twenty  left 
without  natural  guardians  and  with  a  large  circle 
of  friends  and  relations. 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  when  she  undressed 
and  went  to  bed,  and  before  that  she  had  drafted 
two  cablegrams — one  to  a  house-agent,  the  other 
to  her  bankers. 


18 


CHAPTER  III 

BOMBAY 

Jan  the  next  two  days  passed  as  in  a 
more  or  less  disagreeable  dream.  She  could 
never  afterwards  recall  very  clearly  what  hap- 
pened, except  that  Sir  Langham  Sykes  seemed 
absolutely  omnipresent,  and  made  her,  she  felt, 
ridiculous  before  the  whole  ship,  by  proclaim- 
ing far  and  wide  that  she  had  bestowed  upon 
him  the  healing  gift  of  sleep. 

He  was  so  effusive,  so  palpably  grateful,  that 
she  simply  could  not  undeceive  him  by  telling 
him  that  after  they  parted  the  night  before  she 
had  never  given  him  another  thought. 

When  he  was  not  doing  this  he  was  pursuing, 
with  fulminations  against  the  whole  tribe  of 
missionaries,  two  kindly,  quiet  members  of  the 
Society  of  Friends. 

In  an  evil  moment  they  had  gratified  his  in- 
satiable curiosity  as  to  the  object  of  their  voy- 
age to  India,  which  was  to  visit  and  report  upon 
the  missionary  work  of  then*  community.  Once 
he  discovered  this  he  never  let  them  alone,  and 
the  deck  resounded  with  his  denunciations  of 
all  Protestant  missionaries  as  "self-seeking,  oily 
humbugs." 

They  bore  it  with  well-mannered  resignation, 
and  a  common  dislike  for  Sir  Langham  formed 
quite  a  bond  of  union  between  them  and  Jan. 

19 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

There  was  the  usual  dance  on  New  Year's 
Eve,  the  usual  singing  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne" 
in  two  huge  circles;  and  Jan  would  have  enjoyed 
it  all  but  for  the  heavy  foreboding  in  her  heart; 
for  she  was  a  simple  person  who  responded  easily 
to  the  emotions  of  others.  Before  she  could 
slip  away  to  bed  Sir  Langham  cornered  her  again, 
conjuring  her  to  "will"  him  to  sleep  and  "to 
go  on  doin'  it"  after  they  parted  in  Bombay. 
He  became  rather  maudlin,  and  she  seized  the 
opportunity  of  telling  him  that  her  best  efforts 
would  be  wholly  unavailing  if  he  at  all  relaxed 
the  temperate  habits,  so  necessary  for  the  cure 
of  his  gout,  that  he  had  acquired  during  the 
voyage.  She  was  stern  with  Sir  Langham,  and 
her  admonitions  had  considerable  effect.  He 
sought  his  cabin  chastened  and  thoughtful. 

The  boat  was  due  early  in  the  morning.  Jan 
finished  most  of  her  packing  before  she  un- 
dressed; then,  tired  and  excited,  she  could  not 
sleep.  A  large  cockroach  scuttling  about  her 
cabin  did  not  tend  to  calm  her  nerves.  She 
plentifully  besprinkled  the  floor  with  powdered 
borax,  kept  the  electric  light  turned  on  and  the 
fan  whirring,  and  lay  down  wide-awake  to  wait 
for  the  dawn. 

The  ship  was  unusually  noisy,  but  just  about 
four  o'clock  came  a  new  sound  right  outside  her 
porthole — the  rush  alongside  of  the  boat  bearing 
the  pilot  and  strange  loud  voices  calling  direc- 
tions in  an  unknown  tongue.  She  turned  out 
her  light  (first  peering  fearfully  under  her  berth 
to  make  sure  no  borax-braving  cockroach  was 

20 


Bombay 

lurking  in  ambush)  and  knelt  on  her  bed  to  look 
out  and  watch  the  boat  with  its  turbaned  occu- 
pants: big  brown  men,  who  shouted  to  one 
another  in  a  liquid  language  full  of  mystery. 

For  a  brief  space  the  little  boat  was  towed 
alongside  the  great  liner,  then  cast  off,  and  pres- 
ently— far  away  on  the  horizon — Jan  saw  a  streak 
of  pearly  pinkish  light,  as  though  the  soft  blue 
curtain  of  the  night  had  been  lifted  just  a  little; 
and  against  that  luminous  streak  were  hills. 

In  spite  of  her  anxiety,  in  spite  of  her  fears  as 
to  the  future,  Jan's  heart  beat  fast  with  pleasur- 
able excitement.  She  was  young  and  strong  and 
eager,  and  here  at  last  was  the  real  East.  A 
little  soft  wind  caressed  her  tired  forehead  and 
she  drank  in  the  blessed  coolness  of  the  early 
morning. 

Both  day  and  night  come  quickly  in  the  East. 
Jan  got  up,  had  her  bath,  dressed,  and  by  half- 
past  six  she  was  on  deck.  The  dark-blue  cur- 
tain was  rolled  up,  and  the  scene  set  was  the 
harbour  of  Bombay. 

Such  a  gracious  haven  of  strange  multi-coloured 
craft,  with  its  double  coast-line  of  misty  hills 
on  one  side,  and  clear-cut,  high-piled  buildings, 
domes  and  trees  upon  the  other. 

A  gay  white-and-gold  launch,  with  its  atten- 
dants in  scarlet  and  white,  came  for  certain  pas- 
sengers, who  were  guests  of  the  Governor.  The 
police  launch,  trim  and  business-like  with  its 
cheerful  yellow-hatted  sepoys,  came  for  others. 
Jan  watched  these  favoured  persons  depart  in 
stately  comfort,  and  went  downstairs  to  get 

21 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

some  breakfast.  Then  came  the  rush  of  de- 
parture by  the  tender.  So  many  had  friends  to 
meet  them,  and  all  seemed  full  of  pleasure  in 
arrival.  Jan  was  just  beginning  to  feel  rather 
forlorn  and  anxious  when  the  Purser,  fussed  and 
over-driven  as  he  always  is  at  such  times,  came 
towards  her,  followed  by  a  tall  man  wearing  a 
pith  helmet  and  an  overcoat. 

"Mr.  Ledgard  has  come  to  meet  you,  Miss 
Ross,  so  you'll  be  all  right." 

It  was  amazing  how  easy  everything  became. 
Mr.  Ledgard's  servants  collected  Jan's  cabin 
baggage  and  took  it  with  them  in  the  tender 
and,  on  arrival,  in  a  tikka- gharri — the  little 
pony-carriage  which  is  the  gondola  of  Bombay— 
and  almost  before  she  quite  realised  that  the 
voyage  was  over  she  found  herself  seated  beside 
Peter  hi  a  comfortable  motor-car,  with  a  cheerful 
little  Hindu  chauffeur  at  the  steering-wheel, 
sliding  through  wide,  well-watered  streets,  still 
comparatively  empty  because  it  was  so  early. 

By  mutual  consent  they  turned  to  look  at  one 
another,  and  Jan  noted  that  Peter  Ledgard  was 
thin  and  extremely  yellow.  That  his  eyes  (hol- 
low and  tired-looking  as  are  the  eyes  of  so  many 
officials  in  the  East)  were  kind,  and  she  thought 
she  had  never  before  beheld  a  firmer  mouth  or 
more  masterful  jaw. 

What  Peter  saw  evidently  satisfied  him  as  to 
her  common  sense,  for  he  plunged  in  medias  res 
at  once:  "How  much  do  you  know  of  this  un- 
fortunate affair?"  he  asked. 

"Very  little,"  she  answered,  "and  that  little 
22 


Bombay 

extremely  vague.  Will  you  tell  me  has  Hugo 
come  to  total  grief  or  not?" 

"Officially,  yes.  He  is  finished,  done  for — 
may  thank  his  lucky  stars  he's  not  in  gaol.  It's 
well  you  should  know  this  at  the  very  beginning, 
for  of  course  he  won't  allow  it,  and  poor  Fay — 
Mrs.  Tancred  (I'm  afraid  we're  rather  free-and- 
easy  about  Christian  names  hi  India) — doesn't 
know  the  whole  facts  by  a  very  long  way.  From 
what  she  tells  me,  I  fear  he  has  made  away  with 
most  of  her  money,  too.  Was  any  of  it  tied  up?" 

Jan  shook  her  head.  "We  both  got  what 
money  there  was  absolutely  on  my  father's 
death." 

"Then,"  said  Peter,  "I  fear  you've  got  the 
whole  of  them  on  your  hands,  Miss  Ross." 

"That's  what  I've  come  for,"  Jan  said  simply, 
"to  take  care  of  Fay  and  the  children." 

Peter  Ledgard  looked  straight  hi  front  of  him. 

"It's  a  lot  to  put  on  you,"  he  said  slowly, 
"and  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  it  a  bit  more  com- 
plicated than  you  expect.  Will  you  remember 
that  I'd  like  to  help  you  all  I  can?" 

Jan  looked  at  the  stern  profile  beside  her  and 
felt  vaguely  comforted.  "I  shall  be  most  grate- 
ful for  your  advice,"  she  said  humbly.  "I  know 
I  shall  need  it." 

The  motor  stopped,  and  as  she  stepped  from 
it  in  front  of  the  tall  block  of  buildings,  Jan 
knew  that  the  old  easy,  straightforward  life  was 
over.  Unconsciously  she  stiffened  her  back  and 
squared  her  shoulders,  and  looked  very  tall 
and  straight  as  she  stood  beside  Peter  Ledgard 

23 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

in  the  entrance.  The  pretty  colour  he  had  ad- 
mired when  he  met  her  had  faded  from  her  cheeks, 
and  the  face  under  the  shady  hat  looked  grave 
and  older. 

Peter  said  something  to  the  smiling  lift-man 
in  an  extremely  dirty  dhoti  who  stood  salaaming 
in  the  entrance. 

"I  won't  come  up  now,"  he  said  to  Jan. 
"Please  tell  Mrs.  Tancred  I'll  look  hi  about 
tea-time." 

As  Jan  entered  the  lift  and  vanished  from  his 
sight,  Peter  reflected,  "So  that's  the  much- 
talked-of  Jan!  Well,  I'm  not  surprised  Fay 
wanted  her." 

The  lift  stopped.  An  elderly  white-clad  butler 
stood  salaaming  at  an  open  door,  and  Jan  fol- 
lowed him. 

A  few  steps  through  a  rather  narrow  passage 
and  she  was  in  a  large  light  room  opening  on  to 
a  verandah,  and  in  the  centre  stood  her  sister 
Fay,  with  outstretched  arms. 

A  pathetic,  inarticulate,  worn  and  faded  Fay: 
her  pretty  freshness  dimmed.  A  Fay  with  dark 
circles  round  her  hollow  eyes  and  all  the  living 
light  gone  from  her  abundant  fair  hair.  It  was 
as  though  her  face  was  covered  by  an  impalpable 
grey  mask. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  Fay  looked 
desperately  ill.  Ill  in  a  way  not  to  be  accounted 
for  by  her  condition. 

Clinging  together  they  sat  down  on  an  im- 
mense sofa,  exchanging  trivial  question  and 
answer  as  to  the  matters  ordinary  happy  folk 

24 


Bombay 

discuss  when  they  first  meet  after  a  long  absence. 
Jan  asked  for  the  children,  who  had  not  yet  re- 
turned from  their  early  morning  walk  with  the 
ayah.  Fay  asked  about  the  voyage  and  friends 
at  home,  and  told  Jan  she  had  got  dreadfully 
grey;  then  kissed  her  and  leant  against  her  just 
as  she  used  to  do  when  they  were  both  children 
and  she  needed  comfort. 

Jan  said  nothing  to  Fay  about  her  looks,  and 
neither  of  them  so  much  as  mentioned  Hugo 
Tancred.  But  Jan  felt  a  wild  desire  to  get  away 
by  herself  and  cry  and  cry  over  this  sad  wraith 
of  the  young  sister  whose  serene  and  happy 
beauty  had  been  the  family  pride. 

And  yet  she  was  so  essentially  the  same  Fay, 
tender  and  loving  and  inconsequent,  and  full  of 
pretty  cares  for  Jan's  comfort. 

The  dining-room  was  behind  the  sitting-room, 
with  only  a  curtain  between,  and  as  they  sat  at 
breakfast  Fay  was  so  eager  Jan  should  eat — she 
ate  nothing  herself — so  anxious  lest  she  should 
not  like  the  Indian  food,  that  poor  Jan,  with  a 
lump  in  her  throat  that  choked  her  at  every 
morsel,  forced  down  the  carefully  thought-out 
breakfast  and  meekly  accepted  everything  pre- 
sented by  the  grey-haired  turbaned  butler  who 
bent  over  her  paternally  and  offered  every  dish 
much  as  one  would  tempt  a  shy  child  with  some 
amusing  toy. 

Presently  Fay  took  her  to  see  her  room,  large, 
bare  and  airy,  with  little  furniture  save  the  bed 
with  its  clean  white  mosquito  curtains  placed 
under  the  electric  fan  in  the  centre  of  the  ceiling. 

25 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Outside  the  window  was  a  narrow  balcony,  and 
Jan  went  there  at  once  to  look  out;  and  though 
her  Jieart  was  so  heavy  she  was  fain  to  exclaim 
joyfully  at  the  beauty  of  the  view. 

Right  opposite,  across  Back  Bay,  lay  the 
wooded  villa-crowned  slopes  of  Malabar  Hill, 
flung  like  a  garland  on  the  bosom  of  a  sea  deeply 
blue  and  smiling,  smooth  as  a  lake,  while  below 
her  lay  the  pageant  of  the  street,  with  its  ever- 
changing  panorama  of  vivid  life.  The  whole  so 
brilliant,  so  various,  so  wholly  unlike  any  beauti- 
ful place  she  had  ever  seen  before  that,  artist's 
daughter  she  was,  she  cried  eagerly  to  Fay,  "Oh, 
come  and  look!  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so 
lovely?  How  Dad  would  have  rejoiced  in  this!" 

Fay  followed  slowly:  "I  thought  you'd  like 
it,"  she  said,  evidently  pleased  by  Jan's  enthusi- 
asm, "that's  why  I  gave  you  this  room.  Look, 
Jan!  There  are  the  children  coming,  those  two 
over  by  the  band-stand.  They  see  us.  Do  wave 
to  them." 

The  children  were  still  a  long  way  off.  Jan 
could  only  see  an  ayah  in  her  white  draperies 
pushing  a  little  go-cart  with  a  child  in  it,  and  a 
small  boy  trotting  by  her  side,  but  she  waved  as 
she  was  bidden. 

The  room  had  evidently  at  one  tune  been  used 
as  a  nursery,  for  inside  the  stone  balustrade  was 
a  high  trellis  of  wood.  Jan  and  Fay  were  both 
tall  women,  but  even  on  them  the  guarding  trellis 
came  right  up  to  their  shoulders.  Neither  of 
them  could  really  lean  over,  though  Fay  tried,  in 
her  eagerness  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  little 

26 


Bombay 

group.  Jan  watched  her  sister's  face  and  again 
felt  that  cruel  constriction  of  the  throat  that 
holds  back  tears.  Fay's  tired  eyes  were  so 'sad, 
so  out  of  keeping  with  the  cheerful  movement  of 
her  hand,  so  shadowed  by  some  knowledge  she 
could  not  share. 

"You  mustn't  stand  here  without  a  hat,"  she 
said,  turning  to  go  in.  "The  sun  is  getting  hot. 
You  must  get  a  topee  this  afternoon.  Peter  will 
take  you  and  help  to  choose  it." 

"Couldn't  you  come,  if  we  took  a  little  car- 
riage? Does  driving  tire  you  when  it's  cool?" 
Jan  asked  as  she  followed  her  sister  back  into  the 
room. 

"I  never  go  out,"  Fay  said  decidedly.  "I 
never  shall  again  ...  I  mean,"  she  added,  "till 
it's  all  over.  I  couldn't  bear  it  just  now — I  might 
meet  someone  I  know." 

"But,  Fay,  it's  very  bad  for  you  to  be  always 
indoors.  Surely,  in  the  early  morning  or  the 
evening — you'll  come  out  then?" 

Fay  shook  her  head.  "Peter  has  taken  me 
out  in  the  motor  once  or  twice  at  night — but  I 
don't  really  like  it.  It  makes  me  so  dreadfully 
tired.  Don't  worry  me  about  that,  Jan.  I  get 
plenty  of  air  in  the  verandah.  It's  just  as  pretty 
there  as  in  your  balcony,  and  we  can  have  com- 
fortable chairs.  Let's  go  there  now.  You  shall 
go  out  as  much  as  you  like.  I'll  send  Lalkhan 
with  you,  or  Ayah  and  the  children;  and  Peter 
will  take  you  about  all  he  can — he  promised  he 
would.  Don't  think  I  want  to  be  selfish  and 
keep  you  here  with  me  all  the  time." 

27 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

The  flat,  weak  voice,  so  nervous,  so  terrified 
lest  her  stronger  sister  should  force  her  to  some 
course  of  action  she  dreaded,  went  to  Jan's 
heart. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  gently,  "I  haven't  come 
here  to  rush  about.  I've  come  to  be  with  you. 
We'll  do  exactly  what  you  like  best." 

Fay  clung  to  her  again  and  whispered,  "  Later  on 
you'll  understand  better — I'll  be  able  to  tell  you 
things,  and  perhaps  you'll  understand  .  .  .  though 
I'm  not  sure — you're  not  weak  like  me,  you'd 
never  go  under  .  .  .  you'd  always  fight.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  pattering  of  small  feet  in  the  pas- 
sage. Little  high  voices  called  for  "  Mummy," 
and  the  children  came  in. 

Tony,  a  grave-eyed,  pale-faced  child  of  five, 
came  forward  instantly,  with  his  hand  held  out 
far  hi  front  of  him.  Jan,  who  loved  little  children, 
knew  in  a  minute  that  he  was  afraid  she  would 
kiss  him;  so  she  shook  hands  with  gentlemanly 
stiffness.  Little  Fay,  on  the  contrary,  ran  for- 
ward, held  up  her  arms  "to  be  taken"  and  her 
adorably  pretty  little  face  to  be  kissed.  She  was 
startlingly  like  her  mother  at  the  same  age,  with 
bobbing  curls  of  feathery  gold,  beseeching  blue 
eyes  and  a  complexion  delicately  coloured  as  the 
pearly  pink  lining  of  certain  shells.  She  was, 
moreover,  chubby,  sturdy  and  robust — quite  un- 
like Tony,  who  looked  nervous,  bleached  and 
delicate. 

Tony  went  and  leant  against  his  mother,  re- 
garding Jan  and  his  small  sister  with  dubious, 
questioning  eyes. 

28 


Bombay 

Presently  he  remarked,  "I  wish  she  hadn't 
come." 

"Oh,  Tony,"  Fay  exclaimed  reproachfully, 
"you  must  both  love  Auntie  Jan  very  dearly. 
She  has  come  such  a  long  way  to  be  good  to  us 
all." 

"I  wish  she  hadn't,"  Tony  persisted. 

"I  sail  love  Auntie  Dzan,"  Fay  remarked, 
virtuously. 

It  was  pleasant  to  be  cuddled  by  this  friendly 
baby,  and  Jan  laid  her  cheek  against  the  fluffy 
golden  head;  but  all  the  time  she  was  watching 
Tony.  He  reminded  her  of  someone,  and  she 
couldn't  think  who.  He  maintained  his  aloof 
and  unfriendly  attitude  till  Ayah  came  to  take 
the  children  to  their  second  breakfast.  Little 
Fay,  however,  refused  to  budge,  and  when  the 
meekly  salaaming  ayah  attempted  to  take  her, 
made  her  strong  little  body  stiff,  and  screamed 
vigorously,  clinging  so  firmly  to  her  aunt  that 
Jan  had  herself  to  carry  the  obstreperous  baby 
to  the  nursery,  where  she  left  her  lying  on  the 
floor,  still  yelling  with  all  the  strength  of  her 
evidently  healthy  lungs. 

When  Jan  returned,  rather  dishevelled — for 
her  niece  had  seized  a  handful  of  her  hah*  in  the 
final  struggle  not  to  be  put  down — Fay  said  al- 
most complacently,  "You  see,  the  dear  little  soul 
took  a  fancy  to  you  at  once.  Tony  is  much  more 
reserved  and  not  nearly  so  friendly.  He's  very 
Scotch,  is  Tony." 

"He  does  what  he's  told,  anyway." 

"Oh,  not  always,"  Fay  said  reassuringly,  "only 
29 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

when  he  doesn't  mind  doing  it.  They've  both  got 
very  strong  wills." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Jan. 

Fay  sighed.  "It  was  time  you  came  to  keep 
them  in  order.  I  can't." 

This  was  evident,  for  Fay  had  not  attempted 
to  interfere  with  her  daughter  beyond  saying,  "I 
expect  she's  hungry,  that's  why  she's  so  fretty, 
poor  dear." 

That  afternoon  Peter  went  to  the  flat  and  was 
shown  as  usual  into  the  sitting-room. 

Jan  and  the  children  were  in  the  verandah,  all 
with  their  backs  to  the  room,  and  did  not  notice 
his  entrance  as  Jan  was  singing  nursery-rhymes. 
Fay  sat  on  her  knee,  cuddled  close  as  though 
there  were  no  such  thing  as  tempers  in  the  world. 
Tony  sat  on  a  little  chair  at  her  side,  not  very 
near,  but  still  near  enough  to  manifest  a  more 
friendly  spirit  than  in  the  morning.  Peter  waited 
in  the  background  while  the  song  went  on. 

I  saw  a  ship  a-sailing,  a-sailing  on  the  sea, 

And  it  was  full  of  pretty  things  for  Tony,  Fay  and  me. 

There  was  sugar  in  the  cabin  and  kisses  in  the  hold — 


"Whose  kisses?"  Tony  asked  suspiciously. 

"Mummy's  kisses,  of  course,"  said  Jan. 

"Why  doesn't  it  say  so,  then?"  Tony  de- 
manded. 

"Mummy's  kisses  in  the  hold,"  Jan  sang  obedi- 
ently— 

The  sails  were  made  of  silk  and  the  masts  were  made  of  gold. 
Gold,  gold,  the  masts  were  made  of  gold. 

30 


Bombay 

"What  nelse?"  Fay  asked  before  Jan  could 
start  the  second  verse. 

There  were  four-and-twenty  sailors  a-skipping  on  the  deck, 
And  they  were  little  white  mice  with  rings  about  their  neck. 
The  captain  was  a  duck,  with  a  jacket  on  his  back, 
And  when  the  ship  began  to  sail,  the  captain  cried,  "Quack! 

Quack ! 
Quack!    Quack!"    The  captain  cried,  "Quack!    Quack!" 

"What  nelse?"  Fay  asked  again. 

"There  isn't  any  nelse,  that's  all." 

"Adain,"  said  Fay. 

"Praps,"  Tony  said  thoughtfully,  "there  was 
some  auntie's  kisses  in  that  hold  .  .  .  just  a 
few  .  .  ." 

"I'm  sure  there  were,"  said  a  new  voice,  and 
Peter  appeared  on  the  verandah. 

The  children  greeted  him  with  effusion,  and 
when  he  sat  down  Tony  sat  on  his  knee.  He  was 
never  assailed  by  fears  lest  Peter  should  want  to 
kiss  him.  Peter  was  not  that  sort. 

"Sing  nunner  song,"  little  Fay  commanded. 

"Not  now,"  Jan  said;  "we've  got  a  visitor  and 
must  talk  to  him." 

"Sing  nunner  song,"  little  Fay  repeated  firmly, 
just  as  though  she  had  not  heard. 

"Not  now;  some  other  tune,"  Jan  said  with 
equal  firmness. 

"Mack!"  said  the  baby,  and  suited  the  action 
to  the  word  by  dealing  her  aunt  a  good  hard 
smack  on  the  arm. 

"You  mustn't  do  that,"  said  Jan;  "it's  not 
kind." 

31 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"Mack,  mack,  mack,"  in  crescendo  with  ac- 
companying blows. 

Jan  caught  the  little  hand,  while  Peter  and 
Tony,  interested  spectators,  said  nothing.  She 
held  it  firmly.  "Listen,  little  Fay,"  she  said, 
very  gently.  "If  you  do  that  again  I  shall  take 
you  to  Ayah  in  the  nursery.  Just  once  again, 
and  you  go." 

Jan  loosed  the  little  hand,  and  instantly  it 
dealt  her  a  resounding  slap  on  the  cheek. 

It  is  of  no  avail  to  kick  and  scream  and  wriggle 
in  the  arms  of  a  strong,  decided  young  aunt. 
For  the  second  time  that  day,  a  vociferously 
struggling  baby  was  borne  back  to  the  nursery. 

As  the  yells  died  away  in  the  distance,  Tony 
turned  right  round  on  Peter's  knee  and  faced 
him:  "She  does  what  she  says,"  he  remarked  in 
an  awestruck  whisper. 

"And  a  jolly  good  thing  too,"  answered  Peter. 

When  Jan  came  back  she  brought  her  sister 
with  her.  Lalkhan  brought  tea,  and  Tony  went 
with  him  quite  meekly  to  the  nursery.  They 
heard  him  chattering  to  Lalkhan  in  Hindustani 
as  they  went  along  the  passage. 

Fay  looked  a  thought  less  haggard  than  in  the 
morning.  She  had  slept  after  tiffin;  the  fact  that 
her  sister  was  actually  in  the  bungalow  had  a 
calming  effect  upon  her.  She  was  quite  cheerful 
and  full  of  plans  for  Jan's  amusement;  plans 
in  which,  of  course,  she  proposed  to  take  no  part 
herself.  Jan  listened  in  considerable  dismay 
to  arrangements  which  appeared  to  her  to  make 
enormous  inroads  into  Peter  Ledgard's  leisure 

32 


Bombay 

hours.  He  and  his  motor  seemed  to  be  quite 
at  Fay's  disposal,  and  Jan  found  the  situation 
both  bewildering  and  embarrassing. 

"What  a  nuisance  for  him,"  she  reflected,  "to 
have  a  young  woman  thrust  upon  him  in  this 
fashion.  It  won't  do  to  upset  Fay,  but  I  must 
tell  him  at  the  first  opportunity  that  none  of 
these  projects  hold  good." 

I*  Directly  tea  was  over  Fay  almost  hustled 
them  out  to  go  and  buy  a  topee  for  Jan,  and 
suggested  that,  having  accomplished  this,  they 
should  look  in  at  the  Yacht  Club  for  an  hour, 
"because  it  was  band-night,"  and  Jan  would 
like  the  Yacht  Club  lawn,  with  the  sea  and  the 
boats  and  all  the  cheerful  people. 

As  the  car  slid  into  the  crowded  traffic  of  the 
Esplanade  Road,  Peter  pointed  to  a  large  build- 
ing on  the  left,  saying,  "There's  the  Army  and 
Navy  Stores,  quite  close  to  you,  you  see.  You 
can  always  get  anything  you  want  there.  I'll 
give  you  my  number  .  .  .  not  that  it  matters." 

"I've  belonged  for  years  to  the  one  at  home," 
said  Jan,  "and  I  understand  the  same  number 
will  do." 

She  felt  she  really  could  not  be  beholden  to 
this  strange  young  man  for  everything,  even  a 
Stores  number;  and  that  she  had  better  make 
the  situation  clear  at  once  that  she  had  come  to 
take  care  of  Fay  and  not  to  be  an  additional 
anxiety  to  him.  At  that  moment  she  felt  almost 
jealous  of  Peter.  Fay  seemed  to  turn  to  him 
for  everything. 

When   they   reached    the   shop   where   topees 
33 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

were  to  be  got,  she  heard  a  familiar,  booming 
voice.  Had  she  been  alone  she  would  certainly 
have  turned  and  fled,  deferring  her  purchase  till  Sir 
Langham  Sykes  had  concluded  his,  but  she  could 
hardly  explain  her  rather  complicated  reasons 
to  Peter,  who  told  the  Eurasian  assistant  to  bring 
topees  for  her  inspection. 

Jan  tried  vainly  to  efface  herself  behind  a 
tailor's  dummy,  but  her  back  was  reflected  in 
the  very  mirror  which  also  reproduced  Sir  Lang- 
ham  in  the  act  of  trying  on  a  khaki-coloured 
topee.  He  saw  her  and  at  once  hurried  in  her 
direction,  exclaiming: 

"Ah,  Miss  Ross,  run  to  earth!  You  slipped 
off  this  morning  without  bidding  me  good-bye, 
and  I've  been  wonderin'  all  day  where  we  should 
meet.  Now  let  me  advise  you  about  your  topee. 
Pll  choose  it  for  you,  then  you  can't  go  wrong. 
Get  a  large  one,  mind,  or  the  back  of  your  nice 
little  neck  will  be  burnt  the  colour  of  the  toast 
they  gave  us  on  the  Carnduff — shockin'  toast, 
wasn't  it?  No,  not  that  shape,  idiot  .  .  .  unless 
you're  goin'  to  ride,  are  you?  If  so,  you  must 
have  one  of  each — a  large  one,  I  said — what  the 
devil's  the  use  of  that?  You  must  wear  it  well 
on  your  head,  mind;  you  can't  show  much  of 
that  pretty  grey  hair  that  puzzled  us  all  se- 
en, w'at?" 

Jan  had  been  white  enough  as  she  entered  the 
shop,  for  she  was  beginning  to  feel  quite  amaz- 
ingly tired;  but  now  the  face  under  the  over- 
shadowing topee  was  crimson  and  she  was  hope- 
lessly confused  and  helpless  in  the  overpowering 

34 


Bombay 

presence  of  Sir  Langham,  who,  when  he  could 
for  a  moment  detach  his  mind  from  Jan,  looked 
with  considerable  curiosity  at  Peter. 

Peter  stood  there  silent,  aloof,  detached;  and 
he  appeared  quite  cool.  Jan  felt  the  atmosphere 
to  be  almost  insufferably  close,  and  heaved  a 
sigh  of  gratitude  when  he  suddenly  turned  on 
an  electric  fan  above  her  head. 

"I  think  this  will  do,"  she  said,  in  a  faint  voice 
to  the  assistant,  though  the  crinkly  green  lining 
round  the  crown  seemed  searing  her  very  brain. 

Peter  intervened,  asking:  "Is  it  comfortable? 
No  ..."  as  she  took  it  off.  "I  can  see  it  isn't. 
It  has  marked  your  forehead  already.  Don't 
be  in  a  hurry.  They'll  probably  need  to  alter 
the  lining.  Some  women  have  it  taken  out  al- 
together. Pins  keep  it  on  all  right." 

Thus  encouraged,  she  tried  on  others,  and  all 
the  time  Sir  Langham  held  forth  at  the  top  of 
his  voice,  interrupting  his  announcement  that 
he  was  dining  at  Government  House  that  very 
night  to  swear  at  the  assistant  when  he  brought 
topees  that  did  not  fit,  and  giving  his  opinion 
of  her  appearance  with  the  utmost  frankness, 
till  Jan  found  one  that  seemed  rather  less  un- 
comfortable than  the  rest.  Then  in  desperation 
she  introduced  Sir  Langham  to  Peter. 

"Your  sister-in-law  looks  a  bit  tucked  up,"  he 
remarked  affably.  "We'd  better  take  her  to 
the  Yacht  Club  and  give  her  a  peg — she  seems 
to  feel  the  heat." 

Jan  cast  one  despairing,  imploring  glance  at 
Peter,  who  rose  to  the  occasion  nobly. 

35 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"You're  quite  right,"  he  said.  "This  place  is 
infernally  stuffy.  Come  on.  They  know  where 
to  send  it.  Good  afternoon  sir,"  and  before  she 
realised  what  had  happened  Peter  seized  her  by 
the  arm  and  swept  her  out  of  the  shop  and  into 
the  front  seat  of  the  car,  stepped  over  her  and 
himself  took  the  steering-wheel. 

While  Sir  Langham's  voice  bayed  forth  a  mix- 
ture of  expostulation  and  assignation  at  the 
Yacht  Club  later  on. 

"Now  where  shall  we  go?"  asked  Peter. 

"Not  the  Yacht  Club,"  Jan  besought  him. 
"He's  coming  there;  he  said  so.  Isn't  he  dread- 
ful? Did  you  mind  very  much  being  taken  for 
my  brother-in-law?  He  has  no  idea  who  he 
really  is,  or  I  wouldn't  have  let  it  pass  .  .  .  but  I 
felt  I  could  never  explain  .  .  .  I'm  so  sorry  ..." 

Her  face  was  white  enough  now. 

"It  would  have  been  absurd  to  explain,  and 
it's  I  who  should  apologise  for  the  free-and-easy 
way  I  carried  you  off,  but  it  was  clearly  a  case 
for  strong  measures,  or  he'd  have  insisted  on 
coming  with  us.  What  an  awful  little  man ! 
Did  you  have  him  all  the  voyage?  No  wonder 
you  look  tired.  ...  I  hope  he  didn't  sit  at 
your  table.  .  .  ." 

Once  out  of  doors,  the  delicious  breeze  from 
the  sea  that  springs  up  every  evening  in  Bombay 
revived  her.  She  forgot  Sir  Langham,  for  a 
few  minutes  she  even  forgot  Fay  and  her  anxieties 
in  sheer  pleasure  in  the  prospect,  as  the  car  fell 
into  its  place  in  the  crowded  traffic  of  the  Queen's 
Road. 

36 


Jan  never  forgot  that  drive.  He  ran  her  out 
to  Chowpatty,  where  the  road  lies  along  the 
shore  and  the  carriages  of  Mohammedan,  Hindu 
and  Parsee  gentlemen  stand  in  serried  rows  while 
their  picturesque  occupants  "eat  the  air"  in 
passive  and  contented  Eastern  fashion;  then 
up  to  Ridge  Road  on  Malabar  Hill,  where  he 
stopped  that  she  might  get  out  and  walk  to  the 
edge  of  the  wooded  cliff  and  look  down  at  the 
sea  and  the  great  city  lying  bathed  in  that  clear 
golden  light  only  to  be  found  at  sunset  in  the  East. 

Peter  enjoyed  her  evident  appreciation  of  it 
all.  She  said  very  little,  but  she  looked  fresh 
and  rested  again,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  quite 
unusual  pleasure  in  her  mere  presence  as  they 
stood  together  in  the  green  garden,  got  and  kept 
by  such  infinite  pains  and  care,  that  borders  the 
road  running  along  the  top  of  Malabar  Hill. 

Suddenly  she  turned.  "We  mustn't  wait 
another  minute,"  she  said.  "You,  doubtless, 
want  to  go  to  the  club.  It  has  been  very  good 
of  you  to  spend  so  much  time  with  me.  What 
makes  it  all  so  beautiful  is  that  everywhere  one 
sees  the  sea.  I  will  tell  Fay  how  much  I  have 
enjoyed  it." 

Peter's  eyes  met  hers  and  held  them:  "Try  to 
think  of  me  as  a  friend,  Miss  Ross.  I  can  see  you 
are  thoroughly  capable  and  independent;  but, 
believe  me,  India  is  not  like  England,  and  a 
white  woman  needs  a  good  many  things  done 
for  her  here  if  she's  to  be  at  all  comfortable.  I 
don't  want  to  butt  in  and  be  a  nuisance,  but 

just  remember  I'm  there  when  the  bell  rings " 

37 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"I  am  not  likely  to  forget,"  said  Jan. 

Lights  began  to  twinkle  in  the  city  below. 
The  soft  monotonous  throb  of  tom-toms  came 
beating  through  the  ambient  air  like  a  pulse  of 
teeming  life;  and  when  he  left  her  at  her  sister's 
door  the  purple  darkness  of  an  Eastern  night 
had  curtained  off  the  sea. 


38 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   BEGINNING   OF   THE   JOB 

was  still  lying  on  her  long  chair  in  the 
verandah  when  Jan  got  in.  She  had  turned 
on  the  electric  light  above  her  head  and  had, 
seemingly,  been  working  at  some  diminutive 
garment  of  nainsook  and  lace.  She  looked  up 
at  Jan's  step,  asking  eagerly,  "Well,  did  you 
like  it?  Did  you  see  many  people?  Was  the 
band  good?" 

Jan  sat  down  beside  her  and  explained  that 
Peter  had  taken  her  for  a  drive  instead.  She 
made  her  laugh  over  her  encounter  with  Sir 
Langham,  and  was  enthusiastic  about  the  view 
from  Malabar  Hill.  Then  Fay  sent  her  to  say 
good  night  to  the  children,  who  were  just  getting 
ready  for  bed. 

As  she  went  down  the  long  passage  towards 
the  nursery,  she  heard  small  voices  chattering  in 
Hindustani,  and  as  she  opened  the  door  little 
Fay  was  hi  the  act  of  stepping  out  of  all  her 
clothes. 

Tony  was  already  clad  in  pink  pyjamas,  which 
made  him  look  paler  than  ever. 

Little  Fay,  naked  as  any  shameless  cherub  on 
a  Renaissance  festoon,  danced  across  the  tiled 
floor,  and,  pausing  directly  in  front  of  her  aunt, 
announced : 

"I  sail  mack  Ayah  as  muts  as  I  like." 
39 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

The  good-natured  Goanese  ayah  salaamed  and, 
beaming  upon  her  charge,  murmured  entire  ac- 
quiescence. 

Jan  looked  down  at  the  absurd  round  atom 
who  defied  her,  and,  trying  hard  not  to  laugh, 
said: 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't." 

"I  sail!"  the  baby  declared  even  more  em- 
phatically, and,  lifting  up  her  adorable,  obstinate 
little  face  to  look  at  Jan,  nodded  her  curly  head 
vigorously. 

"I  think  not,"  Jan  remarked  rather  unsteadily, 
"because  if  you  do,  people  won't  like  you.  We 
can  none  of  us  go  about  smacking  innocent  folks 
just  for  the  fun  of  it.  Everybody  would  be 
shocked  and  horrified." 

"Socked  and  hollified,"  echoed  little  Fay, 
delighted  with  the  new  words,  "socked  and 
hollified!  .  .  .  What  nelse?" 

"What  usually  follows  is  that  the  disagreeable 
little  girl  gets  smacked  herself." 

"No,"  said  Fay,  but  a  thought  doubtfully. 
"No,"  more  firmly.  Then  with  a  smile  that  was 
subtly  compounded  of  pathos  and  confidence, 
"Nobody  would  mack  plitty  little  Fay  .  .  .  'cept 
.  .  .  plapse  .  .  .  Auntie  Dzan." 

The  stern  aunt  in  question  snatched  up  her 
niece  to  cover  her  with  kisses.  Ayah  escaped 
chastisement  that  evening,  for,  arrayed  in  a 
white  nighty,  "plitty  little  Fay"  sat  good  as 
gold  on  Jan's  knee,  absorbed  in  the  interest  of 
"This  little  pig  went  to  market,"  told  on  her 
own  toes.  Even  Tony,  the  aloof  and  unfriendly, 

40 


The  Beginning  of  the  Job 

consented  to  unbend  to  the  extent  of  being  in- 
terested in  the  dialogue  of  "John  Smith  and 
Minnie  Bowl,  can  you  shoe  a  little  foal?"  and 
actually  thrust  out  his  own  bare  feet  that  Jan 
might  make  them  take  part  in  the  drama  of  the 
"twa  wee  doggies  who  went  to  the  market,"  and 
came  back  "  louper-scamper,  louper-scamper." 

At  the  end  of  every  song  or  legend  came  the 
inevitable  "What  nelse?"  from  little  Fay — and 
Jan  only  escaped  after  the  most  solemn  promises 
had  been  exacted  for  a  triple  bill  on  the  morrow. 

When  she  had  changed  and  went  back  to  the 
sitting-room,  dinner  was  ready.  Lalkhan  again 
bent  over  her  with  fatherly  solicitude  as  he 
offered  each  course,  and  this  tune  Jan,  being 
really  hungry,  rather  enjoyed  his  ministrations. 
A  boy  assisted  at  the  sideboard,  and  another 
minion  appeared  to  bring  the  dishes  from  the 
kitchen,  for  the  butler  and  the  boy  never  left  the 
room  for  an  instant. 

Fay  looked  like  a  tired  ghost,  and  Jan  could 
see  that  it  was  a  great  effort  to  her  to  talk  cheer- 
fully and  seem  interested  in  the  home  news. 

After  dinner  they  went  back  to  the  sitting- 
room.  Lalkhan  brought  coffee  and  Fay  lit  a 
cigarette.  Jan  wandered  round,  looking  at  the 
photographs  and  engravings  on  the  walls. 

"How  is  it,"  she  asked,  "that  Mr.  Ledgard 
seems  to  come  in  so  many  of  these  groups?  Did 
you  rent  the  flat  from  a  friend  of  his?" 

"I  didn't  'rent'  the  flat  from  anybody,"  Fay 
answered.  "It's  Peter's  own  flat.  He  lent  it 
to  us." 

41 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Jan  turned  and  stared  at  her  sister.  "Mr. 
Ledgard's  flat!"  she  repeated.  "And  what  is 
he  doing?" 

"He's  living  at  the  club  just  now.  He  turned 
out  when  we  came.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that, 
Jan.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing  else  to  be  done." 

Jan  came  back  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
big  sofa.  "But  I  understood  Hugo's  letter  to 
say  .  .  ." 

"Whatever  Hugo  said  in  his  letter  was  prob- 
ably lies.  If  Peter  hadn't  lent  us  his  flat,  I 
should  have  had  nowhere  to  lay  my  head.  Who 
do  you  suppose  would  let  us  a  flat  here,  after  all 
that  has  happened,  unless  we  paid  in  advance, 
and  how  could  we  do  that  without  any  ready 
money?  Why,  a  flat  like  this  unfurnished  costs 
over  three  hundred  rupees  a  month.  I  don't 
know  what  a  furnished  flat  would  be." 

"But — isn't  it  ...  taking  a  great  deal  from 
Mr.  Ledgard?"  Jan  asked  timidly. 

Fay  stretched  out  her  hand  and  suddenly 
switched  off  the  lights,  so  that  they  were  left  to- 
gether on  the  big  sofa  in  the  soft  darkness. 

"Give  me  your  hand,  Jan.  I  shall  be  less 
afraid  of  you  when  I  just  feel  you  and  can't  see 
you." 

"Why  should  you  be  afraid  of  me?  .  .  .  Dear, 
dear  Fay,  you  must  remember  how  little  I  really 
know.  How  can  I  understand?" 

Fay  leant  against  her  sister  and  held  her  close. 
"Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  understand  it 
all  myself.  But  you  mustn't  worry  about  Peter's 
flat.  We'll  all  go  home  the  minute  I  can  be 

42 


The  Beginning  of  the  Job 

moved.  He  doesn't  mind,  really  .  .  .  and  there 
was  nothing  else  to  be  done." 

"Does  Hugo  know  you  are  here?" 

Fay  laughed,  a  sad,  bitter  little  laugh.  "It 
was  Hugo  who  asked  Peter  to  lend  his  flat." 

"Then  what  about  his  servants?  What  has  he 
done  with  them  while  you  are  here?" 

"  These  are  his  servants." 

"But  Hugo  said  .  .  ." 

"Jan,  dear,  it  is  no  use  quoting  Hugo  to  me. 
I  can  tell  you  the  sort  of  thing  he  would  say.  .  .  . 
Did  he  mention  Peter  at  all?" 

"Certainly  not.  He  said  you  were  'installed  in 
a  most  comfortable  flat'  and  had  brought  your 
own  servants." 

"I  brought  Ayah — naturally,  Peter  hadn't  an 
ayah.  But  why  do  you  object  to  his  servants? 
They're  very  good." 

"But  don't  they  think  it  ...  a  little  odd?" 

"Oh,  you  can't  bother  about  what  servants 
think  in  India.  They  think  us  all  mad  anyway." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes  while  Jan 
realised  the  fact  that,  dislike  it  as  she  might,  she 
seemed  fated  to  be  laid  under  considerable  obli- 
gation to  Mr.  Peter  Ledgard. 

"Where  is  Hugo?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"My  dear,  you  appear  to  have  heard  from 
Hugo  since  I  have.  As  to  his  whereabouts  I 
haven't  the  remotest  idea." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Fay,  that  he  hasn't  let 
you  know  where  he  is?" 

"He  didn't  come  with  us  to  the  flat  because  he 
was  afraid  he'd  be  seized  for  debts  and  things. 

43 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

We've  only  been  here  a  fortnight.  He's  probably 
on  board  ship  somewhere — there  hasn't  been 
much  time  for  him  to  let  me  know  ..." 

Fay  spoke  plaintively,  as  though  Jan  were 
rather  hard  on  Hugo  in  expecting  him  to  give  his 
wife  any  account  of  his  movements. 

Jan  was  glad  it  was  dark.  She  felt  bewildered 
and  oppressed  and  very,  very  angry  with  her 
brother-in-law,  who  seemed  to  have  left  his 
entire  household  in  the  care  of  Peter  Ledgard. 
Was  Peter  paying  for  then*  very  food,  she  won- 
dered? She'd  put  a  stop  to  that,  anyhow. 

"Jan" — she  felt  Fay  lean  a  little  closer — "don't 
be  down  on  me.  You've  no  idea  how  hard  it  has 
all  been.  You're  such  a  daylight  person  your- 
self." 

"Hard  on  you,  my  precious!  I  could  never 
feel  the  least  little  bit  hard.  Only  it's  all  so 
puzzling.  And  what  do  you  mean  by  a  'day- 
light person'?" 

"You  know,  Jan,  for  three  months  now  I've 
been  a  lot  alone,  and  I've  done  a  deal  of  thinking 
— more  than  ever  in  all  my  life  before;  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  world  is  divided  into  three 
kinds  of  people — the  daylight  people,  and  the 
twilight  people  and  the  night  people." 

Fay  paused.  Jan  stroked  her  hot,  thin  hand, 
but  did  not  speak,  and  the  tired,  whispering  voice 
went  on:  "We  were  daylight  people — Daddy  was 
very  daylight.  There  were  never  any  mysteries; 
we  all  of  us  knew  always  where  each  of  us  was, 
and  there  were  no  secrets  and  no  queer  people 
coming  for  interviews,  and  it  wouldn't  have  mat- 

44 


The  Beginning  of  the  Job 

tered  very  much  if  anyone  had  opened  one  of  our 
letters.  Oh,  it's  such  an  easy  life  in  the  daylight 
country  ..." 

"And  in  the  twilight  country?"  asked  Jan. 

"Ah,  there  it's  very  different.  Everything  is 
mysterious.  You  never  know  where  anyone  has 
gone,  and  if  he's  away  queer  people — quite  hor- 
rid people — come  and  ask  for  him  and  won't  go 
away,  and  sit  in  the  verandah  and  cheek  the 
butler  and  the  boy  and  insist  on  seeing  the  'mem- 
sahib/  and  when  she  screws  up  her  courage  and 
goes  to  them,  they  ask  for  money,  and  show  dirty 
bits  of  paper  and  threaten,  and  it's  all  awful — 
till  somebody  like  Peter  comes  and  kicks  them 
out,  and  then  they  simply  fly." 

In  spite  of  her  irritation  at  being  beholden  to 
him,  Jan  began  to  feel  grateful  to  Peter. 

"Sometimes,"  Fay  continued,  "I  think  it  would 
be  easier  to  be  a  night  person.  They've  no  ap- 
pearances to  keep  up.  You  see,  what  makes  it  so 
difficult  for  the  twilight  people  is  that  they  want 
to  live  in  the  daylight,  and  it's  too  strong  for 
them.  All  the  night  people  whom  they  know — 
and  if  you're  twilight  you  know  lots  of  'em — 
come  and  drag  them  back.  They  don't  care. 
They  rather  like  to  go  right  in  among  the  day- 
light folk  and  scare  and  shock  them,  and  make 
them  uncomfortable.  You  can't  suffer  hi  the 
same  way  when  you've  gone  under  altogether." 

"But,  Fay  dear,"  Jan  interposed,  "you  talk 
as  though  the  twilight  people  couldn't  help 
it  .  .  ." 

"They  can't— they  truly  can't." 
45 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"But  surely  there's  right  and  wrong,  straight- 
ness  and  crookedness,  and  no  one  need  be  crooked." 

"People  like  you  needn't — but  everybody  isn't 
strong  like  that.  Hugo  says  every  man  has  his 
price,  and  every  woman  too — Peter  says  so,  too." 

"Then  Peter  oXight  to  be  ashamed  of  himself. 
Do  you  suppose  he  has  his  price?" 

"No,  not  in  that  way.  He'd  think  it  silly  to 
be  pettifogging  and  dishonest  about  money,  or 
to  go  in  for  mad  speculations  run  by  shady  com- 
panies; but  he  wouldn't  think  it  extraordinary 
like  you." 

"I'm  afraid  my  education  has  been  neglected. 
A  great  many  things  seem  extraordinary  to  me." 

"You  think  it  funny  I  should  be  living  in 
Peter's  flat,  waited  on  by  Peter's  servants — but 
what  else  could  I  do?" 

Jan  smiled  in  the  darkness.  She  saw  where 
her  niece  had  got  "what  nelse?" 

"Isn't  it  just  a  little — unusual?"  she  asked 
gently.  "Is  there  no  money  at  all,  Fay?  What 
has  become  of  all  your  own?" 

"It's  not  all  gone,"  Fay  said  eagerly.  "I  think 
there's  nearly  two  thousand  pounds  left,  but 
Peter  made  me  write  home — that  was  at  Daria- 
warpur,  before  he  came  down  here — and  say  no 
more  was  to  be  sent  out,  not  even  if  I  wrote  my- 
self to  ask  for  it — and  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Davidson 
^oo » 

"I  know  somebody  wrote.  Mr.  Davidson  was 
very  worried  .  .  .  but  what  can  Hugo  have  done 
with  eight  thousand  pounds  hi  two  years?  Be- 
sides his  pay  .  .  ." 

46 


The  Beginning  of  the  Job 

"Eight  thousand  pounds  doesn't  go  far  when 
you've  dealings  with  money-lenders  and  mines  in 
Peru — but  /  don't  understand  it — don't  ask  me. 
I  believe  he  left  me  a  little  money — I  don't  know 
how  much — at  a  bank  in  Elphinstone  Circle — 
but  I  haven't  liked  to  write  and  find  out,  lest  it 
should  be  very  little  ...  or  none  ..." 

" Mercy!"  exclaimed  Jan.  "It  surely  would 
be  better  to  know  for  certain." 

"When  you've  lived  in  the  twilight  country 
as  long  as  I  have  you'll  not  want  to  know  any- 
thing for  certain.  It's  only  when  things  are 
wrapped  up  in  a  merciful  haze  of  obscurity  that 
life  is  tolerable  at  all.  Do  you  suppose  I  wanted 
to  find  out  that  my  husband  was  a  rascal?  I 
shut  my  eyes  to  it  as  long  as  I  could,  and  then 
Truth  came  with  all  he*  cruel  tools  and  pried 
them  open.  Oh,  Jan,  it  did  hurt  so!" 

If  Fay  had  cried,  if  her  voice  had  even  broken 
or  she  had  seemed  deeply  moved,  it  would  have 
been  more  bearable.  It  was  the  poor  thing's 
calm — almost  indifference — that  frightened  Jan. 
For  it  proved  that  her  perceptions  were  numbed. 

Fay  had  been  tortured  till  she  could  feel  noth- 
ing acutely  any  more.  Jan  had  the  feeling  .that 
hi  some  dreadful,  inscrutable  way  her  sister  was 
shut  away  from  her  in  some  prison-house  of  the 
mind. 

And  who  shall  break  through  those  strange,  in- 
tangible, impenetrable  walls  of  unshared  expe- 
rience ? 

Jan  swallowed  her  tears  and  said  cheerfully: 
"Well,  it's  all  going  to  be  different  now.  You 

47 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

needn't  worry  about  anything  any  more.  If 
Hugo  has  left  no  money  we'll  manage  without. 
Mr.  Davidson  will  let  me  have  what  I  want  .  .  . 
but  we  must  be  careful,  because  of  the  children." 

"And  you'll  try  not  to  mind  living  in  Peter's 
flat?"  Fay  said,  rubbing  her  head  against  Jan's 
shoulder.  "It's  India,  you  know,  and  men  are 
very  kind  out  here — much  friendlier  than  they 
are  at  home." 

"So  it  seems." 

"You  needn't  think  there's  anything  wrong, 
Jan.  Peter  isn't  in  love  with  me  now." 

"Was  he  ever  in  love  with  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  a  bit,  once;  when  he  first  came  to 
Dariawarpur  .  .  .  lots  of  them  were  then.  I 
really  was  very  pretty,  and  I  had  quite  a  little 
court  .  .  .  but  when  the  bad  times  came  and 
people  began  to  look  shy  at  Hugo — everybody 
was  nice  to  me  always — then  Peter  seemed  differ- 
ent. There  was  no  more  philandering,  he  was 
just  .  .  .  Oh,  Jan,  he  was  just  such  a  daylight 
person,  and  might  have  been  Daddie.  I  should 
have  died  without  him." 

"Fay,  tell  me — I'll  never  ask  again — was  Hugo 
unkind  to  you?" 

"No,  Jan,  truly  not  unkind.  He  shut  me 
away  from  the  greater  part  of  his  life  .  .  .  and 
there  were  other  people  .  .  .  not  ladies" — Fay 
felt  the  shoulder  she  leant  against  stiffen — "but 
I  didn't  know  that  for  quite  a  long  tune  .  .  . 
and  he  wasn't  ever  surly  or  cross  or  grudging. 
He  always  wanted  me  to  have  everything  very 
nice,  and  I  really  believe  he  always  hoped  the 

48 


The  Beginning  of  the  Job 

mines  and  things  would  make  lots  of  money.  .  .  . 
You  know,  Jan,  I'd  rather  believe  in  people.  I 
daresay  you  think  I'm  weak  and  stupid  .  .  . 
but  I  can  never  understand  wives  who  set  detec- 
tives on  then*  husbands." 

"It  isn't  done  by  the  best  people,"  Jan  said 
with  a  laugh  that  was  half  a  sob.  "Let's  hope 
it  isn't  often  necessary.  .  .  ." 

Fay  drew  a  little  closer:  "Oh,  you  are  dear  not 
to  be  stern  and  scolding.  ..." 

"It's  not  you  I  feel  like  scolding." 

"If  you  scolded  him,  he'd  agree  with  every 
word,  so  that  you  simply  couldn't  go  on  ... 
and  then  he'd  go  away  and  do  just  the  same 
things  over  again,  and  fondly  hope  you'd  never 
hear  of  it.  But  he  was  kind  hi  lots  of  ways. 
He  didn't  drink " 

"I  don't  see  anything  so  very  creditable  in 
that,"  Jan  interrupted. 

"Well,  it's  one  of  the  things  he  didn't  do — and 
we  had  the  nicest  bungalow  in  the  station  and 
by  far  the  best  motor — a  much  smarter  motor 
than  the  Resident.  And  it  was  only  when  I  dis- 
covered that  Hugo  had  made  out  I  was  an  heiress 
that  I  began  to  feel  uncomfortable." 

"Was  he  good  to  the  children?" 

"He  hardly  saw  them.  Children  don't  interest 
him  much.  He  liked  little  Fay  because  she's  so 
pretty,  but  I  don't  think  he  cared  a  great  deal  for 
Tony.  Tony  is  queer  and  judging.  Don't  take 
a  dislike  to  Tony,  Jan;  he  needs  a  long  time,  but 
once  you've  got  him  he  stays  for  ever — will  you 
remember  that?" 

49 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Again,  Jan  felt  that  cold  hand  laid  on  her  heart, 
the  hand  of  chill  foreboding.  She  had  noticed 
many  times  already  that  when  Fay  was  off  her 
guard  she  always  talked  as  though,  for  her,  every- 
thing were  ended,  and  she  was  only  waiting  for 
something.  There  seemed  no  permanence  in  her 
relations  with  them  all. 

A  shadowy  white  figure  lifted  the  curtain  be- 
tween the  two  rooms  and  stood  salaaming. 

Jan  started  violently.  She  was  not  yet  accus- 
tomed to  the  soundless  naked  feet  of  the  servants 
whose  presence  might  be  betrayed  by  a  rustle, 
never  by  a  step. 

It  was  Ayah  waiting  to  know  if  Fay  would 
like  to  go  to  bed. 

"Shall  I  go,  Jan?    Are  you  tired?" 

Jan  was,  desperately  tired,  for  she  had  had  no 
sleep  the  night  before,  but  Fay's  voice  had  in  it 
a  little  tremor  of  fear  that  showed  she  dreaded 
the  night. 

"Send  her  to  bed,  poor  thing.  I'll  look  after 
you,  brush  your  hair  and  tuck  you  up  and 
all.  .  .  .  Fay,  oughtn't  you  to  have  somebody 
in  your  room?  Couldn't  my  cot  be  put  in  there, 
just  to  sleep?" 

"Oh,  Jan,  would  you?    Don't  you  mind?" 

"Shall  I  help  her  to  move  it?"  Jan  said,  get- 
ting up. 

Fay  pulled  her  down  again.  "You  funny  Jan, 
you  can't  do  that  sort  of  thing  here.  The  ser- 
vants will  do  it." 

She  sat  up,  gave  a  rapid,  eager  order  to  Ayah, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Jan  heard  her  bed  being 

50 


The  Beginning  of  the  Job 

wheeled  down  the  passage.  Every  room  had 
wide  double  doors — like  French  rooms — and  there 
was  no  difficulty. 

Fay  sank  down  again  among  her  cushions  with 
a  great  sigh  of  relief :  "I  don't  mind  now  how  soon 
I  go  to  bed.  I  shan't  be  frightened  in  the  long 
dark  night  any  more.  Oh,  Jan,  you  are  a  dear 
daylight  person!" 


51 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    CHILDREN 

JAN  made  headway  with  Tony  and  little  Fay. 
An  aunt  who  carried  one  pick-a-back;  who 
trotted,  galloped,  or  curvetted  to  command  as 
an  animated  steed;  who  provided  spades  and 
buckets,  and  herself,  getting  up  very  early,  took 
them  and  the  children  to  an  adorable  sandy 
beach,  deserted  save  for  two  or  three  solitary 
horsemen;  an  aunt  who  dug  holes  and  built  cas- 
tles and  was  indirectly  the  means  of  thrilling  rides 
upon  a  real  horse,  when  Peter  was  encountered 
as  one  of  the  mounted  few  taking  exercise  before 
breakfast;  such  an  aunt  could  not  be  regarded 
otherwise  than  as  an  acquisition,  even  though 
she  did  at  tunes  exert  authority  and  insist  upon 
obedience. 

She  got  it,  too;  especially  from  little  Fay,  who, 
hitherto,  had  obeyed  nobody.  Tony,  less  wilful 
and  not  so  prone  to  be  destructive,  was  secretly 
still  unwon,  though  outwardly  quite  friendly. 
He  waited  and  watched  and  weighed  Jan  in  the 
balance  of  his  small  judgment.  Tony  was  never 
hi  any  hurry  to  make  up  his  mind. 

One  great  hold  Jan  had  was  a  seemingly  inex- 
haustible supply  of  rhymes,  songs,  and  stories, 
and  she  was,  moreover,  of  a  telling  disposition. 

52 


The  Children 

Both  children  had  a  quite  unusual  passion  for 
new  words.  Little  Fay  would  stop  short  in  the 
midst  of  the  angriest  yells  if  anyone  called  her 
conduct  in  question  by  some  new  term  of  oppro- 
brium. Ayah's  vocabulary  was  limited,  even  in 
the  vernacular,  and  nothing  would  have  induced 
her  to  return  railing  for  railing  to  the  children, 
however  sorely  they  abused  her.  But  Jan  occa- 
sionally freed  her  mind,  and  at  such  times  her 
speech  was  terse  and  incisive.  Moreover,  she 
quickly  perceived  her  power  over  her  niece  hi  this 
respect,  and  traded  on  the  baby's  quick  ear  and 
interest. 

One  day  there  was  a  tremendous  uproar  in  the 
nursery  just  after  tiffin,  when  poor  Fay  usually 
tried  to  get  the  sleep  that  would  partially  atone 
for  her  restless  night.  Jan  swept  down  the  pas- 
sage and  into  the  room,  to  find  her  niece  netted 
in  her  cot,  and  bouncing  up  and  down  like  a 
newly-landed  trout,  while  Ayah  wrestled  with  a 
struggling  Tony,  who  tried  to  drown  his  sister's 
screams  with  angry  cries  of  "Let  me  get  at  her 
to  box  her,"  and,  failing  that,  vigorously  boxing 
Ayah. 

Jan  closed  the  door  behind  her  and  stood  where 
she  was,  saying  in  the  quiet,  compelling  voice 
they  had  both  already  learned  to  respect:  "It's 
tune  for  Mummy's  sleep,  and  how  can  Mummy 
sleep  in  such  a  pandemonium?" 

Little  Fay  paused  hi  the  very  middle  of  a  yell 
and  her  face  twinkled  through  the  restraining  net. 

"Pandemolium,"  she  echoed,  joyously  rolling 
it  over  on  her  tongue  with  obvious  gusto. 

53 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"  Pandemolium." 

"She  kickened  and  fit  with  me,"  Tony  cried 
angrily.  "I  must  box  her." 

"Pandemolium?"  little  Fay  repeated  inquir- 
ingly. "What  nelse?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jan,  trying  hard  not  to  laugh; 
"that's  exactly  what  it  was  .  .  .  disgraceful." 

"What  nelse?"  little  Fay  persisted.  She  had 
heard  disgraceful  before.  It  lacked  novelty. 

"All  sorts  of  horrid  things,"  said  Jan.  "Selfish 
and  odious  and  ill-bred— 

"White  bled,  blown  bled,  ill-bled,"  the  person 
under  the  net  chanted.  "What  nother  bled?" 

"There's  well-bred,"  said  Jan  severely,  "and 
that's  what  neither  you  nor  Tony  are  at  the 
present  moment." 

"There's  teas'  too,"  said  the  voice  from  under 
the  net,  ignoring  the  personal  application.  "Sail 
we  have  some?" 

"Certainly  not,"  Jan  answered  with  great 
sternness.  "People  who  riot  and  brawl— 

"Don't  like  zose  words,"  the  netted  one  in- 
terrupted distastefully  (R's  always  stumped  her), 
"naughty  words." 

"Not  so  naughty  as  the  people  who  do  it. 
Has  Ayah  had  her  dinner?  No?  Then  poor 
Ayah  must  go  and  have  it,  and  I  shall  stay  here 
and  tell  a  very  soft,  whispery  story  to  people 
who  are  quiet  and  good,  who  lie  hi  their  cots  and 
don't  quarrel— 

"Or  blawl"  came  from  the  net  hi  a  small  de- 
termined voice.  She  could  not  let  the  new  word 
pass  after  all. 

54 


The  Children 

"Exactly  ...  or  brawl,"  Jan  repeated  in 
tones  nothing  like  so  firm. 

"She  kickened  and  fit  me,  she  did,"  Tony 
mumbled  moodily  as  he  climbed  into  his  cot: 
"Can't  I  box  her  nor  nothing?" 

"Not  now,"  Jan  said,  soothingly.  Ayah 
salaamed  and  hurried  away.  She,  at  all  events, 
had  cause  to  bless  Jan,  for  now  she  got  her  meals 
with  fair  regularity  and  in  peace. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  room  was  as  quiet  as  an 
empty  church,  save  for  a  low  voice  that  related 
an  mterminable  story  about  "  Cockie-Lockie  and 
Henny-Penny  going  to  tell  the  King  the  lift's  fal- 
len," till  one,  at  all  events,  of  the  "blawlers"  was 
sound  asleep. 

The  voice  ceased  and  Tony's  head  appeared 
over  the  rail  of  his  cot. 

"Hush!"  Jan  whispered.  "Sister's  asleep. 
Just  wait  a  few  minutes  till  Ayah  comes,  then 
I'll  take  you  away  with  me." 

Faithful  Ayah  didn't  dawdle  over  her  food. 
She  returned,  sat  down  on  the  floor  beside  little 
Fay's  cot  and  started  her  endless  mending. 

Jan  carried  Tony  away  with  her  along  the 
passage  and  into  the  drawing-room.  The  ve- 
randah was  too  hot  in  the  early  afternoon. 

"Now  what  shall  we  do?"  she  asked,  with  a 
sigh,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  big  sofa.  "Td  like 
to  sleep,  but  I  suppose  you  won't  let  me." 

Tony  got  off  her  knee  and  looked  at  her 
gravely. 

"You  can,"  he  said,  magnanimously,  "because 
you  brought  me.  I  hate  bed.  I'll  build  a  temple 

55 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

with  my  bricks  and  I  won't  knock  it  down.  Not 
loud." 

And  like  his  aunt  he  did  what  he  said. 

Jan  put  her  feet  up  and  lay  very  still.  For  a 
week  now  she  had  risen  early  every  morning  to 
take  the  children  out  in  the  freshest  part  of  the 
day.  She  seldom  got  any  rest  in  the  afternoon, 
as  she  saw  to  it  that  they  should  be  quiet  to  let 
Fay  sleep,  and  she  went  late  to  bed  because  the 
cool  nights  hi  the  verandah  were  the  pleasant 
time  for  Fay. 

Tony  murmured  to  himself,  but  he  made  little 
noise  with  his  stone  bricks.  And  presently  Jan 
was  sleeping  almost  as  soundly  as  her  obstrep- 
erous niece. 

Tony  did  not  repeat  new  words  aloud  as  did 
his  sister.  He  turned  them  over  in  his  mind 
and  treasured  some  simply  because  he  liked  the 
sound  of  them. 

There  were  two  that  he  had  carried  in  his 
memory  for  nearly  half  his  life;  two  that  had 
for  him  a  mysterious  fascination,  a  vaguely  agree- 
able significance  that  he  couldn't  at  all  explain. 
One  was  "Piccadilly"  and  the  other  "Coin  St. 
Aldwyn's."  He  didn't  even  know  that  they 
were  the  names  of  places  at  first,  but  he  thought 
they  had  a  most  beautiful  sound.  Gradually 
the  fact  that  they  were  places  filtered  into  his 
mind,  and  for  Tony  Piccadilly  seemed  partic- 
ularly rural.  He  connected  it  in  some  way  with 
the  duck-slaying  Mrs.  Bond  of  the  Baby's  Opera, 
a  book  he  and  Mummy  used  to  sing  from  before 
she  grew  too  tired  and  sad  to  sing.  Before  she 

56 


The  Children 

lay  so  many  hours  in  her  long  chair,  before  the 
big  man  he  called  Daddie  became  so  furtive  and 
disturbing.  Then  Mummy  used  to  tell  him 
things  about  a  place  called  Home,  and  though 
she  never  actually  mentioned  Piccadilly  he  had 
heard  the  word  very  often  in  a  song  that  some- 
body sang  in  the  drawing-room  at  Dariawarpur. 

Theatricals  had  been  towards  and  Mummy 
was  acting,  and  people  came  to  practise  their 
songs  with  her,  for  not  only  did  she  sing  herself 
delightfully,  but  she  played  accompaniments 
well  for  other  people.  The  play  was  a  singing 
play,  and  the  Assistant  Superintendent  of  Police, 
a  small,  fair  young  man  with  next  to  no  voice 
and  a  very  clear  enunciation,  continually  prac- 
tised a  song  that  described  someone  as  walking 
"down  Piccadilly  with  a  tulip  or  a  lily  in  his 
mediaeval  hand." 

Tony  rather  liked  "mediaeval"  too,  but  not 
so  much  as  Piccadilly.  A  flowery  way,  he  was 
sure,  with  real  grass  hi  it  like  the  Resident's 
garden.  Besides,  the  "dilly"  suggested  "daffy- 
down  dilly  come  up  to  town  hi  a  yellow  petti- 
coat and  a  green  gown." 

But  not  even  Piccadilly  could  compete  with 
Coin  St.  Aldwyn's  in  Tony's  affections.  There 
was  something  about  that  suggestive  of  exquisite 
peace  and  loveliness,  no  mosquitoes  and  many 
friendly  beasts.  He  had  only  heard  the  word 
once  by  chance  in  connection  with  the  mys- 
terious place  called  Home,  in  some  casual  con- 
versation when  no  one  thought  he  was  listening. 
He  seized  upon  it  instantly  and  it  became  a 

57 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

priceless  possession,  comforting  in  times  of  stress, 
soothing  at  all  times,  a  sort  of  refuge  from  a 
real  world  that  had  lately  been  very  puzzling 
for  a  little  boy. 

He  was  certain  that  at  Coin  St.  Aldwyn's 
there  was  a  mighty  forest  peopled  by  all  the 
nicest  animals.  Dogs  that  were  ever  ready  to 
extend  a  welcoming  paw,  elephants  and  mild 
clumsy  buffaloes  that  gave  good  milk  to  the 
thirsty.  Little  grey  squirrels  frolicked  in  the 
branches  of  the  trees,  and  the  tiny  birds  Mummy 
told  him  about  that  lived  hi  the  yew  hedge  at 
Wren's  End.  Tony  had  himself  been  to  Wren's 
End  he  was  told,  but  he  was  only  one  at  the 
time,  and  beyond  a  feeling  that  he  liked  the 
name  and  that  it  was  a  very  green  place  his  ideas 
about  it  were  hazy. 

Sometimes  he  wished  it  had  been  called  "Wren 
St.  Endwyn's,"  but  after  mature  reflection  he 
decided  it  was  but  a  poor  imitation  of  the  real 
thing,  so  he  kept  the  two  names  separate  in  his 
mind. 

He  had  added  two  more  names  to  his  collec- 
tion since  he  came  to  Bombay.  "Mahaluxmi," 
the  road  running  beside  the  sea,  where  Peter 
sometimes  took  them  and  Auntie  Jan  for  a  drive 
after  tea  when  it  was  high  tide;  and  "Tara- 
porevala,"  who  owned  a  famous  book-shop  in 
Medow  Street  where  he  had  once  been  in  a  tikka- 
gharri  with  Auntie  Jan  to  get  some  books  for 
Mummy.  Peter  had  recommended  the  shop, 
and  the  name  instantly  seized  upon  Tony's 
imagination  and  will  remain  with  it  evermore. 

58 


The  Children 

He  never  for  one  moment  connected  it  with  the 
urbane  gentleman  in  eyeglasses  and  a  funny 
little  round  hat  who  owned  the  shop.  For  Tony 
"Taraporevala"  will  always  suggest  endless  vistas 
of  halls,  fitted  with  books,  shelves,  and  tall  stacks 
of  books,  and  counters  laden  with  piles  of  books. 
It  seemed  amazing  to  find  anything  so  vast  in 
such  a  narrow  street.  There  was  something 
magic  about  it,  like  the  name.  Tony  was  sure 
that  some  day  when  he  should  explore  the  forest 
of  Coin  St.  Aldwyn  he  would  come  upon  a  little 
solid  door  in  a  great  rock.  A  little  solid  door 
studded  with  heavy  nails  and  leading  to  a  magic 
cave  full  of  unimaginable  treasure.  This  door 
should  only  open  to  the  incantation  of  "  Tara- 
porevala." None  of  your  " abracadabras"  for 
him. 

And  just  as  Mummy  had  talked  much  of 
"Wren's  End"  in  happier  days,  so  now  Auntie 
Jan  told  them  endless  stories  about  it  and  what 
they  would  all  do  there  when  they  went  home. 
Some  day,  when  he  knew  her  better,  he  would 
ask  her  about  Coin  St.  Aldwyn's.  He  felt  he 
didn't  know  her  intimately  enough  to  do  so  yet, 
but  he  was  gradually  beginning  to  have  some 
faith  in  her.  She  was  a  well-instructed  person, 
too,  on  the  whole,  and  she  answered  a  straight 
question  in  a  straight  way. 

It  was  one  of  the  things  Tony  could  never 
condone  in  the  big  man  called  Daddie,  that  he 
could  never  answer  the  simplest  question.  He 
always  asked  another  in  return,  and  there  was 
derision  of  some  sort  concealed  in  this  circuitous 

59 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

answer.  Doubtless  he  meant  to  be  pleasant  and 
amusing — Tony  was  just  enough  to  admit  that 
—but  he  was,  so  Tony  felt,  profoundly  mistaken 
in  the  means  he  sought.  He  took  liberties,  too; 
punching  liberties  that  knocked  the  breath  out 
of  a  small  boy's  body  without  actually  hurting 
much;  and  he  never,  never  talked  sense.  Tony 
resented  this.  Like  the  Preacher,  he  felt  there 
was  a  tune  to  jest  and  a  time  to  refrain  from 
jesting,  and  it  didn't  amuse  him  a  bit  to  be 
punched  and  rumpled  and  told  he  was  a  surly 
little  devil  if  he  attempted  to  punch  back.  In 
some  vague  way  Tony  felt  that  it  wasn't  play- 
ing the  game — if  it  was  a  game.  Often,  too,  for 
the  past  year  and  more,  he  connected  the  fre- 
quent disappearances  of  the  big  man  with  trouble 
for  Mummy.  Tony  understood  Hindustani  as 
well  as  and  better  than  English.  His  extensive 
vocabulary  in  the  former  would  have  astonished 
his  mother's  friends  had  they  been  able  to  trans- 
late, and  he  understood  a  good  deal  of  the  ser- 
vants' talk.  He  felt  no  real  affection  for  the  big, 
tiresome  man,  though  he  admired  him,  his  size, 
his  good  looks,  and  a  way  he  had  with  grown-up 
people;  but  he  decided  quite  dispassionately,  on 
evidence  and  without  any  rancour,  that  the  big 
man  was  a  "budmash,"  for  he,  unlike  Auntie 
Jan,  never  did  anything  he  said  he'd  do.  And 
when,  before  they  left  Dariawarpur,  the  big  man 
entirely  disappeared,  Tony  felt  no  sorrow,  only 
some  surprise  that  having  said  he  was  going  he 
actually  had  gone.  Auntie  Jan  never  mentioned 
him,  Mummy  had  reminded  them  both  always  to 

60 


The  Children 

include  him  when  they  said  their  prayers,  but 
latterly  Mummy  had  been  too  tired  to  come  to 
hear  prayers.  Auntie  Jan  came  instead,  and 
Tony,  watching  her  face  out  of  half-shut  eyes, 
tried  leaving  out  "bless  Daddie"  to  see  if  any- 
thing happened.  Sure  enough  something  did; 
Auntie  Jan  looked  startled.  "Say  'Bless  Dad- 
die,'  Tony,  'and  please  help  him.'" 

"To  do  what?"  Tony  asked.  "Not  to  come 
back  here?" 

"I  don't  think  he'll  come  back  here  just  now," 
Auntie  Jan  said  in  a  frightened  sort  of  whisper, 
"but  he  needs  help  badly." 

Tony  folded  his  hands  devoutly  and  said, 
"Bless  Daddie  and  please  help  him — to  stay 
away  just  now." 

And  low  down  under  her  breath  Jan  said, 
"Amen." 


61 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   SHADOW   BEFORE 

JAN  had  been  a  week  in  Bombay,  and  her  grave 
anxiety  about  Fay  was  in  no  way  lessened. 
Rather  did  it  increase  and  intensify,  for  not  only 
did  her  bodily  strength  seem  to  ebb  from  her 
almost  visibly  day  by  day,  but  her  mind  seemed 
so  detached  and  aloof  from  both  present  and 
future. 

It  was  only  when  Jan  talked  about  the  past, 
about  their  happy  girlhood  and  their  lovable 
comrade-father,  that  Fay  seemed  to  take  hold 
and  understand.  All  that  had  happened  before 
his  death  seemed  real  and  vital  to  her.  But  when 
Jan  tried  to  interest  her  in  plans  for  the  future, 
the  voyage  home,  the  children,  the  baby  that 
was  due  so  soon,  Fay  looked  at  her  with  tired, 
lack-lustre  eyes  and  seemed  at  once  to  become 
absent-minded  and  irrelevant. 

She  was  ready  enough  to  discuss  the  characters 
of  the  children,  to  impress  upon  Jan  the  fact  that 
Tony  was  not  unloving,  only  cautious  and  slow 
before  he  really  gave  his  affection.  That  little 
Fay  was  exactly  what  she  appeared  on  the  surface 
— affectionate,  quick,  wilful,  and  already  con- 
scious of  her  own  power  through  her  charm. 

"I  defy  anybody  to  quarrel  with  Fay  when 
she  is  willing  to  make  it  up,"  her  mother  said. 
"Tony  melts  like  wax  before  the  warmth  of  her 

62 


The  Shadow  Before 

advances.  She  may  have  behaved  atrociously  to 
him  five  minutes  before — Ayah  lets  her,  and  I 
am  far  too  weak  with  her — but  if  she  wants  to 
be  friends  Tony  forgets  and  condones  everything. 
Was  I  very  naughty  to  you,  Jan,  as  a  baby?" 

"Not  that  I  can  remember.  I  think  you  were 
very  biddable  and  good." 

"And  you?" 

Jan  laughed — "  There  you  have  me.  I  believe 
I  was  most  naughty  and  obstreperous,  and  have 
vivid  recollections  of  being  sent  to  bed  for  various 
offences.  You  see,  Mother  was  far  too  strong 
and  wise  to  spoil  me  as  little  Fay  is  spoilt. 
Father  tried  his  best,  but  you  remember  Hannah  ? 
Could  you  imagine  Hannah  submitting  for  one 
moment  to  the  sort  of  treatment  that  baby  metes 
out  to  poor,  patient  Ayah  every  single  day?" 

"By  the  way,  how  is  Hannah?" 

"Hannah  is  in  her  hardy  usual.  She  is  going 
strong,  and  has  developed  all  sorts  of  latent  tal- 
ent as  a  cook.  She  was  with  me  in  the  furnished 
flat  I  rented  till  the  day  I  left  (I  only  took  it  by 
the  month),  and  she'll  be  with  us  again  when  we 
all  get  back  to  Wren's  End." 

"But  I  thought  Wren's  End  was  let?" 

"Only  till  March  quarter-day,  and  I've  cabled 
to  the  agent  not  to  entertain  any  other  offer,  as 
we  want  it  ourselves." 

"I  like  to  think  of  the  children  at  Wren's 
End,"  Fay  said  dreamily. 

"Don't  you  like  to  think  of  yourself  there,  too? 
Would  you  like  any  other  place  better?" 

Jan's  voice  sounded  constrained  and  a  little 
63 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

hard.  People  sometimes  speak  crossly  when 
they  are  frightened,  and  just  then  Jan  felt  the 
cold,  skinny  hands  of  some  unnameable  terror 
clutching  her  heart.  Why  did  Fay  always  ex- 
clude herself  from  all  plans? 

They  were,  as  usual,  sitting  in  the  verandah 
after  dinner,  and  Fay's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
deeply  blue  expanse  of  sky.  She  hardly  seemed 
to  hear  Jan,  for  she  continued :  "  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  sketch  Daddie  did  of  me  against  the  yew 
hedge?  I'd  like  Tony  to  have  that  some  day  if 
you'd  let  him." 

"Of  course  that  picture  is  yours,"  Jan  said, 
hastily.  "We  never  divided  the  pictures  when 
he  died.  Some  were  sold  and  we  shared  the 
money,  but  our  pictures  are  at  Wren's  End." 

"I  remember  that  money,"  Fay  interrupted. 
"Hugo  was  so  pleased  about  it,  and  gave  me  a 
diamond  chain." 

"Fay,  where  do  you  keep  your  jewellery?" 

"There  isn't  any  to  keep  now.  He  'realised' 
it  all  long  before  we  left  Dariawarpur." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Fay?  Has  Hugo  pawned 
it?  All  Mother's  things,  too?" 

"I  don't  know  what  he  did  with  it,"  Fay  said, 
wearily.  "He  told  me  it  wasn't  safe  in  Daria- 
warpur, as  there  were  so  many  robbers  about 
that  hot  weather,  and  he  took  all  the  things  in 
their  cases  to  send  to  the  bank.  And  I  never 
saw  them  again." 

Jan  said  nothing,  but  she  reflected  rather  rue- 
fully that  when  Fay  married  she  had  let  her  have 
nearly  all  their  mother's  ornaments,  partly  be- 

64 


The  Shadow  Before 

cause  Fay  loved  jewels  as  jewels,  and  Jan  cared 
little  for  them  except  as  associations.  "If  I'd 
kept  more,"  Jan  thought,  "they'd  have  come  in 
for  little  Fay.  Now  there's  nothing  except  what 
Daddie  gave  me." 

"Are  you  sorry,  Jan?"  Fay  asked,  presently. 
"I  suppose  there  again  you  think  I  ought  to 
have  stood  out,  to  have  made  inquiries  and  in- 
sisted on  getting  a  receipt  from  the  bank.  But 
I  knew  very  well  they  were  not  going  to  the  bank. 
I  don't  think  they  fetched  much,  but  Hugo  looked 
a  little  less  harassed  after  he'd  got  them.  I've 
nothing  left  now  but  my  wedding  ring  and  the 
little  enamel  chain  like  yours,  that  Daddie  gave 
us  the  year  he  had  that  portrait  of  Meg  in  the 
Salon  and  took  us  over  to  see  it.  Where  is  Meg  ? 
Has  she  come  back  yet?" 

"Meg  is  still  in  Bremen  with  an  odious  Ger- 
man family,  but  she  leaves  at  the  end  of  the 
Christmas  holidays,  as  the  girl  is  going  to  school, 
and  Meg  will  be  utilised  to  bring  her  over.  Then 
she's  to  have  a  rest  for  a  month  or  two,  and  I 
daresay  she'd  come  to  Wren's  End  and  help  us 
with  the  babies  when  we  get  back." 

Fay  leant  forward  and  said  eagerly,  "Try  to 
get  her,  Jan.  I'd  love  to  think  she  was  there  to 
help  you." 

"To  help  us,"  Jan  repeated  firmly. 

Fay  sighed.  "I  can  never  think  of  myself  as 
of  much  use  any  more;  besides  .  .  .  Oh,  Jan, 
won't  you  face  it?  You  who  are  so  brave  about 
facing  things  ...  I  don't  believe  I  shall  come 
through — this  time." 

65 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Jan  got  up  and  walked  restlessly  about  the 
verandah.  She  tried  to  make  herself  say,  heard 
her  own  voice  saying  without  any  conviction,  that 
it  was  nonsense;  that  Fay  was  run  down  and 
depressed  and  no  wonder;  and  that  she  would 
feel  quite  different  hi  a  month  or  two.  And  all 
the  time,  though  her  voice  said  these  prepos- 
terously banal  things,  her  brain  repeated  the  doc- 
tor's words  after  his  last  visit:  "I  wish  there  was 
a  little  more  stamina,  Miss  Ross.  I  don't  like 
this  complete  inertia.  It's  not  natural.  Can't 
you  rouse  her  at  all?" 

"My  sister  has  had  a  very  trying  time,  you 
know.  She  seems  thoroughly  worn  out." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  the  doctor  had  said.  "A 
bad  business  and  cruelly  hard  on  her;  but  I  wish 
we  could  get  her  strength  up  a  bit  somehow.  I 
don't  like  it — this  lack  of  interest  in  everything 
— I  don't  like  it."  And  the  doctor's  thin,  clever 
face  looked  lined  and  worried  as  he  left. 

His  words  rang  hi  Jan's  ears,  drowning  her  own 
spoken  words  that  seemed  such  a  hollow  sham. 

She  went  and  knelt  by  Fay's  long  chair.  Fay 
touched  her  cheek  very  gently  (little  Fay  had  the 
same  adorable  tender  gestures).  "It  would  make 
it  easier  for  both  of  us  if  you'd  face  it,  my  dear," 
she  said.  "I  could  talk  much  more  sensibly  then 
and  make  plans,  and  perhaps  really  be  of  some 
use.  But  I  feel  a  wretched  hypocrite  to  talk  of 
sharing  in  things  when  I  know  perfectly  well  I 
shan't  be  there." 

"Don't  you  want  to  be  there?"  Jan  asked, 
hoarsely. 

66 


The  Shadow  Before 

Fay  shook  her  head.  "I  know  it's  mean  to 
shuffle  out  of  it  all,  but  I  am  so  tired.  Do  you 
think  it  very  horrid  of  me,  Jan?" 

In  silence  Jan  held  her  close;  and  in  that  mo- 
ment she  faced  it. 

The  days  went  on,  strange,  quiet  days  of  bril- 
liant sunshine.  Their  daily  life  shrouded  from 
the  outside  world  even  as  the  verandah  was 
shrouded  from  the  sun  when  Lalkhan  let  down 
the  chicks  every  day  after  tiffin. 

Peter  was  then*  only  visitor  besides  the  doctor, 
and  Peter  came  practically  every  day.  He  gen- 
erally took  Jan  out  after  tea,  sometimes  with  the 
children,  sometimes  alone.  He  even  went  with 
her  to  the  bank  in  Elphinstone  Circle,  so  like  a 
bit  of  Edinburgh,  with  its  solid  stone  houses,  and 
found  that  Hugo  actually  had  lodged  fifty  pounds 
there  in  Fay's  name.  The  clerks  looked  curiously 
at  Jan,  for  they  thought  she  was  Mrs.  Tancred. 
Every  one  in  business  or  official  circles  in  Bombay 
knew  about  Hugo  Tancred.  His  conduct  had, 
for  a  while,  even  ousted  the  usual  topics  of  con- 
versation— money,  food,  and  woman — from  the 
bazaars;  and  an  exhaustive  discussion  of  it  was 
only  kept  out  of  the  Native  Press  by  the  com- 
bined efforts  of  the  Police  and  his  own  Depart- 
ment. Jan  gained  from  Peter  a  fairly  clear  idea 
of  the  debacle  that  had  occurred  in  Hugo  Tan- 
cred's  life.  She  no  longer  wondered  that  Fay  re- 
fused to  leave  the  bungalow.  She  began  to  feel 
branded  herself. 

For  Jan,  Peter's  visits  had  come  to  have  some- 
thing of  the  relief  the  loosening  of  a  too-tight 

67 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

bandage  gives  to  a  wounded  man.  He  generally 
came  at  tea-time  when  Fay  was  at  her  best,  and 
he  brought  her  news  of  her  little  world  at  Daria- 
warpur.  To  her  sister  he  seemed  the  one  link 
with  reality.  Without  him  the  heavy  dream 
would  have  gone  on  unbroken.  Fay  was  always 
most  eager  he  should  take  Jan  out,  and,  though 
at  first  Jan  had  been  unwilling,  she  gradually 
came  to  look  upon  such  times  as  a  blessed  break 
in  the  monotonous  restraint  of  her  day.  With 
him  she  was  natural,  said  what  she  felt,  expressed 
her  fears,  and  never  failed  to  return  comforted 
and  more  hopeful. 

One  night  he  took  her  to  the  Yacht  Club,  and 
Jan  was  glad  she  had  gone,  because  it  gave  her 
so  much  to  tell  Fay  when  she  got  back. 

It  was  a  very  odd  experience  for  Jan,  this  tea 
on  the  crowded  lawn  of  the  Yacht  Club.  She 
turned  hot  when  people  looked  at  her,  and  Jan 
had  always  felt  so  sure  of  herself  before,  so  proud 
to  be  a  daughter  of  brilliant,  lovable  Anthony 
Ross. 

Here,  she  knew  that  her  sole  claim  to  notice 
was  that  she  had  the  misfortune  to  be  Hugo 
Tancred's  sister-in-law.  Fay,  too,  had  once  been 
joyfully  proud  and  confident — and  now ! 

Sometimes  in  the  long,  still  days  Jan  wondered 
whether  their  father  had  brought  them  up  to 
expect  too  much  from  life,  to  take  their  happiness 
too  absolutely  as  a  matter  of  course.  Anthony 
Ross  had  fully  subscribed  to  the  R.L.S.  doctrine 
that  happiness  is  a  duty.  When  they  were  both 
quite  little  girls  he  had  loved  to  hear  them  repeat: 

68 


The  Shadow  Before 

If  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 
In  my  great  task  of  happiness; 
If  I  have  moved  among  my  race 
And  shown  no  glorious  morning  face; 
If  beams  from  happy  human  eyes 
Have  moved  me  not;  if  morning  skies, 
Books,  and  my  food  and  summer  rain 
Knocked  on  my  sullen  heart  in  vain; 
Lord,  Thy  most  pointed  pleasure  take, 
And  stab  my  spirit  broad  awake. 

Surely  as  young  girls  they  had  both  shown  a 
"glorious  morning  face."  Who  more  so  than 
poor  Fay?  So  gay  and  beautiful  and  kind. 
Why  had  this  come  upon  her,  this  cruel,  numbing 
disgrace  and  sorrow?  Jan  was  thoroughly  rebel- 
lious. Again  she  went  over  that  time  in  Scotland 
six  years  before,  when,  at  a  big  shooting-box  up 
in  Sutherland,  they  met,  among  other  guests, 
handsome  Hugo  Tancred,  home  on  leave.  How 
he  had,  almost  at  first  sight,  fallen  violently  in 
love  with  Fay.  How  he  had  singled  her  out  for 
every  deferent  and  delicate  attention;  how  she, 
young,  enthusiastic,  happy  and  flattered,  had 
fallen  quite  equally  in  love  with  him.  Jan  re- 
called her  father's  rather  comical  dismay  and 
astonishment.  His  horror  when  they  pressed  an 
immediate  marriage,  so  that  Fay  might  go  out 
with  Hugo  in  November.  And  his  final  giving-in 
to  everything  Fay  wanted  because  Fay  wanted  it. 

Did  her  father  really  like  Hugo  Tancred?  she 
wondered.  And  then  came  the  certainty  that  he 
wouldn't  ever  have  liked  anybody  much  who 
wanted  to  marry  either  of  them;  but  he  was  far 
too  just  and  too  imaginative  to  stand  in  the  way 

69 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

where,  what  seemed,  the  happiness  of  his  daughter 
was  concerned. 

"What  a  gamble  it  all  is,"  thought  Jan,  and 
felt  inclined  to  thank  heaven  that  she  was  neither 
so  fascinating  nor  as  susceptible  as  Fay. 

How  were  they  to  help  to  set  Hugo  Tancred  on 
his  legs  again,  and  reconstruct  something  of  a 
future  for  Fay?  And  then  there  always  sounded, 
like  a  knell,  Fay's  tired,  pathetic  voice:  "Don't 
bother  to  make  plans  for  me,  Jan.  For  the  chil- 
dren, yes,  as  much  as  you  like.  You  are  so  clever 
and  constructive — but  leave  me  out,  dear,  for  it's 
just  a  waste  of  time." 

And  the  dreadful  part  of  it  was  that  Jan  felt 
a  growing  conviction  that  Fay  was  right.  And 
what  was  more,  that  Peter  felt  about  it  exactly 
as  Fay  did,  in  spite  of  his  matter-of-fact  optimism 
at  all  such  tunes  as  Jan  dared  to  express  her  dread. 

Peter  learned  a  good  deal  about  the  Ross  family 
in  those  talks  with  Jan.  She  was  very  frank 
about  her  affairs,  told  him  what  money  she  had 
and  how  it  was  invested.  That  the  old  house  in 
Gloucestershire  was  hers,  left  directly  to  her  and 
not  to  her  father,  by  a  curious  freak  on  the  part 
of  his  aunt,  one  Janet  Ross,  who  disapproved  of 
Anthony's  habit  of  living  up  to  whatever  he 
made  each  year  by  his  pictures,  and  saving  noth- 
ing that  he  earned. 

"My  little  girls  are  safe,  anyway,"  he  always 
said.  "Their  mother's  money  is  tied  up  on 
them,  though  they  don't  get  it  except  with  my 
sanction  till  my  death.  I  can't  touch  the  capital. 
Why,  then,  shouldn't  we  have  an  occasional  flut- 

70 


The  Shadow  Before 

ter  when  I  have  a  good  year,  while  we  are  all 
young  and  can  enjoy  things?" 

They  had  a  great  many  flutters — for  Anthony's 
pictures  sold  well  among  a  rather  eclectic  set. 
His  portraits  had  a  certain  cachet  that  gave  them 
a  vogue.  They  were  delicate,  distinguished,  and 
unlike  other  work.  The  beauties  without  brains 
never  succeeded  in  getting  Anthony  Ross  to  paint 
them,  bribed  they  never  so.  But  the  clever 
beauties  were  well  satisfied,  and  the  clever  who 
were  not  at  all  beautiful  felt  that  Anthony  Ross 
painted  their  souls,  so  they  were  satisfied,  too. 
Besides,  he  made  then*  sittings  so  delightful  and 
flirted  with  them  with  such  absolute  discretion 
always.  The  year  that  Hugo  Tancred  met  Fay 
was  a  particularly  good  year,  and  Anthony  had 
bought  a  touring-car,  and  they  all  went  up  to 
Scotland  in  it.  The  girls  were  always  well  dressed 
and  went  out  a  good  deal.  Young  as  she  was, 
Jan  was  already  an  excellent  manager  and  a 
pleasant  hostess.  She  had  been  taking  care  of 
her  father  from  the  time  she  was  twelve  years 
old,  and  knew  exactly  how  to  manage  him. 
When  there  was  plenty  of  money  she  let  him 
launch  out;  when  it  was  spent  she  made  him 
draw  in  again,  and  he  was  always  quite  ready  to 
do  so.  Money  as  money  had  no  charms  for 
Anthony  Ross,  but  the  pleasures  it  could  pro- 
vide, the  kindnesses  it  enabled  him  to  do,  the 
easy  travel  and  the  gracious  life  were  precious  to 
him.  He  abhorred  debt  in  any  form  and  paid 
his  way  as  he  went;  lavishly  when  he  had  it, 
justly  and  exactly  always. 

71 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

On  hearing  all  this  Peter  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  Hugo  Tancred  was  not  altogether  to 
blame  if  he  had  expected  a  good  deal  more  finan- 
cial assistance  from  his  father-in-law  than  he  got. 
Anthony  made  no  marriage  settlement  on  Fay. 
He  allowed  her  two  hundred  a  year  for  her  per- 
sonal expenses  and  considered  that  Hugo  Tancred 
should  manage  the  running  of  his  own  house  out 
of  his  quite  comfortable  salary.  He  had,  of 
course,  no  smallest  inkling  of  Hugo's  debts  or 
gambling  propensities.  And  all  might  have  gone 
well  if  only  Anthony  Ross  had  made  a  new  will 
when  Fay  married;  a  will  which  tied  up  her 
mother's  money  and  anything  he  might  leave  her, 
so  that  she  couldn't  touch  the  capital.  But  noth- 
ing of  the  kind  was  done. 

It  never  occurred  to  Jan  to  think  of  wills. 

Anthony  Ross  was  strong  and  cheerful  and  so 
exceedingly  young  at  fifty-two  that  it  seemed 
absurd  that  he  should  have  grown-up  daughters, 
quite  ludicrous  that  he  should  be  a  grandfather. 

Many  charming  ladies  would  greatly  like  to 
have  occupied  the  position  of  stepmother  to 
"those  nice  girls,"  but  Anthony,  universal  lover 
as  he  was  within  strictly  platonic  limits,  showed 
no  desire  to  give  his  girls  anything  of  the  sort. 
Jan  satisfied  his  craving  for  a  gracious  and  well- 
ordered  comfort  in  all  his  surroundings.  Fay 
gratified  his  aesthetic  appreciation  of  beauty  and 
gentleness.  What  would  he  do  with  a  third 
woman  who  might  introduce  discord  into  these 
harmonies  ? 

Fay  came  home  for  a  short  visit  when  Tony 
72 


The  Shadow  Before 

Was  six  months  old,  as  Hugo  had  not  got  a  very 
good  station  just  then.  She  was  prettier  than 
ever,  seemed  perfectly  happy,  and  both  Anthony 
and  Jan  rejoiced  in  her. 

After  she  went  out  the  Tancreds  moved  to 
Dariawarpur,  which  was  considered  one  of  the 
best  stations  in  then*  province,  and  there  little 
Fay  was  born,  and  it  was  arranged  that  Jan  and 
her  father  were  to  visit  India  and  Fay  during  the 
next  cold  weather. 

But  early  in  the  following  November  Anthony 
Ross  got  influenza,  recovered,  went  out  too  soon, 
got  a  fresh  chill,  and  in  two  days  developed  double 
pneumonia. 

His  heart  gave  out,  and  before  his  many  friends 
had  realised  he  was  at  all  seriously  ill,  he  died. 

Jan,  stunned,  bewildered,  and  heart-broken,  yet 
contrived  to  keep  her  head.  She  got  rid  of  the 
big  house  in  St.  George's  Square  and  most  of  the 
servants,  finally  keeping  only  Hannah,  her  old 
Scottish  nurse.  She  paid  everybody,  rendered 
a  full  account  of  her  stewardship  to  Fay  and  Hugo, 
and  then  prepared  to  go  out  to  India  as  had  been 
arranged.  Her  heart  cried  out  for  her  only  sister. 

To  her  surprise  this  proposition  met  with  but 
scant  enthusiasm.  It  seemed  the  Tancreds'  plans 
were  uncertain;  perhaps  it  might  be  better  for 
Fay  and  the  children  to  come  home  in  spring  in- 
stead of  Jan  going  out  to  them.  Hugo's  letters 
were  ambiguous  and  rather  cold;  Fay's  a  curious 
mixture  of  abandonment  and  restraint;  but  the 
prevailing  note  of  both  was  "would  she  please  do 
nothing  in  a  hurry,  but  wait." 

73 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

So,  of  course,  Jan  waited. 

She  waited  two  years,  growing  more  anxious 
and  puzzled  as  time  went  on.  Her  lawyer  pro- 
tested unavailingly  at  Hugo's  perpetual  demands 
(of  course,  backed  up  by  Fay)  for  more  and  more 
capital  that  he  might  "re-invest"  it.  Fay's  let- 
ters grew  shorter  and  balder  and  more  constrained. 
At  last,  quite  suddenly,  came  the  imperative 
summons  to  go  out  at  once  to  be  with  Fay  when 
the  new  baby  should  arrive. 

And  now  after  three  weeks  in  Bombay  Jan 
felt  that  she  had  never  known  any  other  life,  that 
she  never  would  know  any  other  life  than  this  curi- 
ous dream-like  existence,  this  silent,  hopeless  wait- 
ing for  something  as  afflicting  as  it  was  inevitable. 

There  had  been  a  great  fire  in  the  cotton  green 
towards  Colaba.  It  had  blazed  all  night,  and, 
in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  Bombay  firemen  and 
their  engines,  was  still  blazing  at  six  o'clock  the 
following  evening. 

Peter  took  Jan  in  his  car  out  to  see  it.  There 
was  an  immense  crowd,  so  they  left  the  car  on  its 
outskirts  and  plunged  into  the  throng  on  foot. 
On  either  side  of  the  road  were  tall,  flimsy  houses 
with  a  wooden  staircase  outside;  those  curious 
tenements  so  characteristic  of  the  poorer  parts  of 
Bombay,  and  in  such  marked  contrast  to  the 
"Fort,"  the  European  quarter  of  the  town.  They 
were  occupied  chiefly  by  Eurasians  and  very  poor 
Europeans.  That  the  road  was  a  sea  of  mud, 
varied  by  quite  deep  pools  of  water,  seemed  the 
only  possible  reason  why  such  houses  were  not 
also  burning. 

74 


Jan  splashed  bravely  through  the  mud,  inter- 
ested and  excited  by  the  people  and  the  leaping 
flames  so  dangerously  near.  It  was  growing 
dusk;  the  air  was  full  of  the  acrid  smell  of  burnt 
cotton,  and  the  red  glow  from  the  sky  was  re- 
flected on  the  grave  brown  faces  watching  the  fire. 

Any  crowd  hi  Bombay  is  always  extremely 
varied,  and  Jan  almost  forgot  her  anxieties  in  her 
enjoyment  of  the  picturesque  scene. 

"I  don't  think  the  people  ought  to  be  allowed 
to  throng  on  the  top  of  that  staircase,"  Peter  said 
suddenly.  "They  aren't  built  to  hold  a  number 
at  once;  there'll  be  an  accident,"  and  he  left  her 
side  for  a  moment  to  speak  to  an  inspector  of 
police. 

Jan  looked  up  at  a  tall  house  on  her  left,  where 
sightseers  were  collecting  on  the  staircase  to  get  a 
better  view.  Every  window  was  crowded  with 
gazers,  all  but  one.  From  one,  quite  at  the  top, 
a  solitary  watcher  looked  out. 

There  was  a  sudden  shout  from  the  crowd  be- 
low, a  redder  glow  as  more  piled  cotton  fell  into 
the  general  furnace  and  blazed  up,  and  in  that 
moment  Jan  saw  that  the  solitary  watcher  was 
Hugo  Tancred,  and  that  he  recognised  her.  She 
gave  a  little  gasp  of  horror,  which  Peter  heard  as 
he  joined  her  again.  "What  is  it?"  he  said. 
"What  has  frightened  you?" 

Jan  pointed  upwards.  "I've  just  seen  Hugo," 
she  whispered.  "There,  in  one  of  those  windows 
—the  empty  one.  Oh,  what  can  he  be  doing  in 
those  dreadful  houses,  and  why  is  he  in  Bombay 
all  this  time  and  never  a  word  to  Fay?" 

75 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Jan  was  trembling.  Peter  put  his  hand  under 
her  arm  and  walked  on  with  her. 

"I  knew  he  was  in  Bombay,"  he  said,  "but 
I  didn't  think  the  poor  devil  was  reduced  to 
this." 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  Jan  exclaimed.  "If 
he  comes  and  worries  Fay  for  money  now,  it  will 
kill  her.  She  thinks  he  is  safely  out  of  India. 
What  is  to  be  done?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Peter.  "He'll  go  the  very 
minute  he  can,  and  you  may  be  sure  he'll  raise 
the  wind  somehow.  He's  got  all  sorts  of  queer 
irons  in  the  fire.  He  daren't  appear  at  the  flat, 
or  some  of  his  creditors  would  cop  him  for  debt 
— it's  watched  day  and  night,  I  know.  Just  let 
it  alone.  I'd  no  idea  he  was  hiding  in  this  region 
or  I  wouldn't  have  brought  you.  We  all  want 
him  to  get  clear.  He  might  file  his  petition,  but 
it  would  only  rake  up  all  the  old  scandals,  and 
they  know  pretty  well  there's  nothing  to  be  got 
out  of  him." 

"He  looked  so  dreadful,  so  savage  and  miser- 
able," Jan  said  with  a  half-sob. 

"Well— naturally,"  said  Peter.  "You'd  feel 
savage  and  miserable  if  you  were  in  his  shoes." 

"But  oughtn't  I  to  help  him?  Send  him 
money,  I  mean." 

"Not  one  single  anna.  It'll  take  you  all  your 
time  to  get  his  family  home  and  keep  them  when 
you  get  there.  Have  you  seen  enough?  Shall 
we  go  back?" 

"You  don't  think  he'll  molest  Fay?" 

"I'm  certain  of  it." 

76 


The  Shadow  Before 

"Please  take  me  home.  I  shall  never  feel  it 
safe  to  leave  Fay  again  for  a  minute." 

"That's  nonsense,  you  know,"  said  Peter. 

"It's  what  I  feel,"  said  Jan. 

It  was  that  night  Tony's  extempore  prayer  was 
echoed  so  earnestly  by  his  aunt. 


77 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   HUMAN   TOUCH 

days  later  Jan  got  a  note  from  Peter 
telling  her  that  Hugo  Tancred  had  left 
Bombay  and  was  probably  leaving  India  at  once 
from  one  of  the  smaller  ports. 

He  had  not  attempted  to  communicate  in  per- 
son or  by  letter  with  either  Jan  or  his  wife. 

Early  in  the  morning,  just  a  week  from  the 
time  Jan  had  seen  Hugo  Tancred  at  the  window 
of  that  tall  house  near  the  cotton  green,  Fay's 
third  child,  a  girl,  was  still-born;  and  Fay,  her- 
self, never  recovered  consciousness  all  day.  A 
most  competent  nurse  had  been  in  the  house 
nearly  a  week,  the  doctor  had  done  all  that  human 
skill  could  do,  but  Fay  continued  to  sink  rapidly. 

About  midnight  the  nurse,  who  had  been 
standing  by  the  bed  with  her  finger  on  Fay's 
pulse,  moved  suddenly  and  gently  laid  down  the 
weak  hand  she  had  been  holding.  She  looked 
warningly  across  at  Jan,  who  knelt  at  the  other 
side,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  pale,  beautiful  face 
that  looked  so  wonderfully  young  and  peaceful. 

Suddenly  Fay  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled. 
She  looked  right  past  Jan,  exclaiming  joyfully, 
"There  you  are  at  last,  Daddie,  and  it's  broad 
daylight." 

For  Jan  it  was  still  the  middle  of  the  Indian 
night  and  very  dark  indeed. 

78 


The  Human  Touch 

The  servants  were  all  asleep;  the  little  mother- 
less children  safely  wrapped  in  happy  unconscious- 
ness in  their  nursery  with  Ayah. 

The  last  sad  offices  had  been  done  for  Fay,  and 
the  nurse,  tired  out,  was  also  sleeping — on  Jan's 
bed. 

Jan,  alone  of  all  the  household,  kept  watch, 
standing  in  the  verandah,  a  ghostly  figure,  still 
in  the  tumbled  white  muslin  frock  she  had  had  no 
time  all  day  to  change. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock.  Motors  and  car- 
riages were  beginning  to  come  back  from  Govern- 
ment House,  where  there  was  a  reception.  The 
motor-horns  and  horses'  hoofs  sounded  loud  in 
the  wide  silent  street,  and  the  head  lights  swept 
down  the  Queen's  Road  like  fireflies  in  flight. 

Jan  turned  on  the  light  in  the  verandah.  Peter 
would  perhaps  look  up  and  see  her  standing  there, 
and  realise  why  she  kept  watch.  Perhaps  he 
would  stop  and  come  up. 

She  wanted  Peter  desperately. 

Compassed  about  with  many  relatives  and  in- 
numerable friends  at  home,  out  here  Jan  was 
singularly  alone.  In  all  that  great  city  she  knew 
no  one  save  Peter,  the  doctor  and  the  nurse. 
Some  few  women,  knowing  all  the  circumstances, 
had  called  and  were  ready  to  be  kind  and  helpful 
and  friendly,  as  women  are  all  over  India,  but 
Fay  would  admit  none  but  Peter — even  to  see 
Jan;  and  always  begged  her  not  to  return  the 
calls  "till  it  was  all  over." 

Well,  it  was  all  over  now.  Fay  would  never  be 
timid  and  ashamed  any  more. 

79 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Jan  had  not  shed  a  tear.  The  longing  to  cry- 
that  had  assailed  her  so  continuously  in  her  first 
week  had  entirely  left  her.  She  felt  clear-headed 
and  cold  and  bitterly  resentful.  She  would  like 
to  have  made  Hugo  Tancred  go  in  front  of  her 
into  that  quiet  room  and  forced  him  to  look  at 
the  girlish  figure  on  the  bed — his  handiwork. 
She  wanted  to  hurt  him,  to  make  him  more 
wretched  than  he  was  already. 

A  car  stopped  in  the  street  below.  Jan  went 
very  quietly  to  the  door  of  the  flat  and  listened 
at  the  top  of  the  staircase. 

Steps  were  on  the  stairs,  but  they  stopped  at 
one  of  the  flats  below. 

Presently  another  car  stopped.  Again  she 
went  out  and  listened.  The  steps  came  up  and 
up  and  she  switched  on  the  light  in  the  passage. 

This  tune  it  was  Peter. 

He  looked  very  tired. 

"I  thought  you  would  come,"  Jan  said.  "She 
died  at  midnight." 

Peter  closed  the  outer  door,  and  taking  Jan 
by  the  arm  led  her  back  into  the  sitting-room, 
where  he  put  her  in  a  corner  of  the  big  sofa  and 
sat  down  beside  her. 

He  could  not  speak,  and  Jan  saw  that  the  tears 
she  could  not  shed  were  in  his  eyes,  those  large 
dark  eyes  that  could  appear  so  sombre  and  then 
again  so  kind. 

Jan  watched  him  enviously.  She  was  acutely 
conscious  of  trifling  things.  She  even  noticed 
what  very  black  eyebrows  he  had  and  how — as 
always,  when  he  was  either  angry  or  deeply 

80 


The  Human  Touch 

moved — the  veins  in  his  forehead  stood  out  in  a 
strongly-marked  V. 

"It  was  best,  I  think,"  Jan  said,  and  even  to 
herself  her  voice  sounded  like  the  voice  of  a 
stranger.  "She  would  have  been  very  unhappy 
if  she  had  lived." 

Peter  started  at  the  cool,  hard  tones,  and  looked 
at  her.  Then,  simply  and  naturally,  like  a  child, 
he  took  her  hand  and  held  it;  and  there  was  that 
in  the  human  contact,  hi  the  firm,  comfortable 
clasp,  that  seemed  to  break  something  down  in 
Jan,  and  all  at  once  she  felt  weak  and  faint  and 
trembling.  She  leaned  her  head  against  the  pil- 
lows piled  high  in  the  corner  where  Fay  had  al- 
ways rested.  The  electric  light  in  the  verandah 
seemed  suddenly  to  recede  to  an  immense  dis- 
tance and  became  a  tiny  luminous  pin-head,  like 
a  far  lone  star. 

She  heard  Peter  moving  about  in  the  dining- 
room  behind  and  clinking  things,  but  she  felt 
quite  incapable  of  going  to  see  what  he  was  doing 
or  of  trying  to  be  hospitable — besides,  it  was  his 
house,  he  knew  where  things  were,  and  she  was 
so  tired. 

And  then  he  was  standing  over  her,  holding  a 
tumbler  against  her  chattering  teeth. 

"Drink  it,"  he  said,  and,  though  his  voice 
sounded  far  away,  it  was  firm  and  authoritative. 
"Quick;  don't  pretend  you  can't  swallow,  for  you 
can." 

He  tipped  the  glass,  and  something  wet  and 
cold  ran  over  her  chin:  anything  was  better  than 
that,  and  she  tried  to  drink.  As  she  did  so  she 

81 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

realised  she  was  thirsty,  drank  it  all  eagerly  and 
gasped. 

"Have  you  had  anything  to  eat  all  day?"  the 
dominating  voice  went  on;  it  sounded  much 
nearer  now. 

"I  can't  remember,"  she  said,  feebly.  "Oh, 
why  did  you  give  me  all  that  brandy,  it's  made 
me  so  muzzy  and  confused,  and  there's  so  much 
I  ought  to  see  to." 

"You  rest  a  bit  first — you'll  be  all  right  pres- 
ently." 

Someone  lifted  her  by  the  knees  and1  put  the 
whole  of  her  on  the  sofa.  It  was  very  comfort- 
able; she  was  not  so  cold  now.  She  lay  quite 
still  and  closed  her  eyes.  She  had  not  had  a  real 
night's  sleep  since  she  reached  Bombay.  Fay 
was  always  restless  and  nervous,  and  Jan  had  not 
had  her  clothes  off  for  forty-eight  hours.  The 
long  strain  was  over,  there  was  nothing  to  watch 
and  wait  for  now.  She  would  do  as  that  voice 
said,  rest  for  a  few  minutes. 

There  was  a  white  chuddah  shawl  folded  on 
the  end  of  the  sofa.  Fay  had  liked  it  spread 
over  her  knees,  for  she  was  nearly  always  chilly. 

Peter  opened  it  and  laid  it  very  lightly  over 
Jan,  who  never  stirred. 

Then  he  sat  down  in  a  comfortable  chair  some 
distance  off,  where  she  would  see  him  if  she  woke, 
and  reviewed  the  situation,  which  was  uncon- 
ventional, certainly. 

He  had  sent  his  car  away  when  he  arrived,  as 
it  was  but  a  step  to  the  Yacht  Club  where  he 
slept.  Now,  he  felt  he  couldn't  leave,  for  if  Jan 

82 


The  Human  Touch 

woke  suddenly  she  would  feel  confused  and  prob- 
ably frightened. 

"I  never  thought  so  little  brandy  could  have 
had  such  an  effect,"  Peter  reflected  half  ruefully. 
"I  suppose  it's  because  she'd  had  nothing  to  eat. 
It's  about  the  best  thing  that  could  have  hap- 
pened, but  I  never  meant  to  hocus  her  like  this." 

There  she  lay,  a  long  white  mound  under  the 
shawl.  She  had  slipped  her  hand  under  her 
cheek  and  looked  pathetically  young  and  help- 
less. 

"I  wonder  what  I'd  better  do,"  thought  Peter. 

Mrs.  Grundy  commanded  him  to  go  at  once. 
Common  humanity  bade  him  stay. 

Peter  was  very  human,  and  he  stayed. 

About  half-past  five  Jan  woke.  She  was  cer- 
tainly confused,  but  not  in  the  least  frightened. 
It  was  light,  not  brilliantly  light  as  it  would  be  a 
little  later  on,  but  clear  and  opalescent,  as  though 
the  sun  were  shining  through  fold  upon  fold  of 
grey-blue  gauze. 

The  electric  light  in  the  verandah  and  the  one 
over  Peter's  head  were  still  burning  and  looked 
garish  and  wan,  and  Jan's  first  coherent  thought 
was,  "How  dreadfully  wasteful  to  have  had  them 
on  all  night — Peter's  electric  light,  too"— and 
then  she  saw  him. 

His  body  was  crumpled  up  in  the  big  chair;  his 
legs  were  thrust  out  stiffly  in  front  of  him.  He 
looked  a  heartrending  interpretation  of  discom- 
fort in  his  evening  clothes,  for  he  hadn't  even 
loosened  the  collar.  He  had  thought  of  it,  but 
felt  it  might  be  disrespectful  to  Jan.  Besides, 

83 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

there  was  something  of  the  chaperon  about  that 
collar. 

Jan's  tears  that  had  refused  to  soften  sorrow 
during  the  anguish  of  the  night  came  now,  hot 
and  springing,  to  blur  that  absurd,  pathetic  figure 
looped  sideways  in  the  big  chair. 

It  was  so  plain  why  he  was  there. 

She  sniffed  helplessly  (of  course,  she  had  lost 
her  handkerchief),  and  thrust  her  knuckles  into 
her  eyes  like  any  schoolboy. 

When  she  could  see  again  she  noticed  how  thin 
was  the  queer,  irregular  face,  with  dark  hollows 
round  the  eyes. 

"I  wonder  if  they  feed  him  properly  at  that 
Yacht  Club,"  thought  Jan.  "And  here  are  we 
using  his  house  and  his  cook  and  everything." 

She  swung  her  feet  off  the  sofa  and  disentan- 
gled them  from  the  shawl,  folded  it  neatly  and 
sat  looking  at  Peter,  who  opened  his  eyes. 

For  a  full  minute  they  stared  at  each  other  in 
silence,  then  he  stretched  himself  and  rose. 

"I  say,  have  you  slept?"  he  asked. 

"Till  a  minute  ago  .  .  .  Mr.  Ledgard  .  .  . 
why  did  you  stay?  It  was  angelic  of  you,  but 
you  must  be  so  dreadfully  tired.  I  feel  abso- 
lutely rested  and,  oh,  so  grateful — but  so 
ashamed  .  .  ." 

"Then  you  must  have  some  tea,"  said  Peter, 
inconsequently.  "I'll  go  and  rouse  up  Lalkhan 
and  the  cook.  We  can't  get  any  ourselves,  for 
he  locks  up  the  whole  show  every  blessed  night." 

In  the  East  burial  follows  death  with  the  great- 
est possible  speed.  Peter  and  the  doctor  and 

84 


The  Human  Touch 

the  nurse  arranged  everything.  A  friend  of 
Peter's  who  had  little  children  sent  for  Ayah  and 
Tony  and  little  Fay  to  spend  the  day,  and  Jan 
was  grateful. 

Fay  and  her  baby  were  laid  in  the  English  cem- 
etery, and  Jan  was  left  to  face  the  children  as 
best  she  could. 

They  had  been  happy,  Ayah  said,  with  the  kind 
lady  and  her  children.  Tony  went  straight  to 
his  mother's  room,  the  room  that  had  been  closed 
to  him  for  three  whole  days. 

He  came  back  to  Jan  and  stood  in  front  of  her, 
searching  her  face  with  his  grave,  judging  gaze. 

"What  have  you  done  with  my  Mummy?"  he 
asked.  "Have  you  carried  her  away  and  put  her 
somewhere  like  you  do  Fay  when  she's  naughty? 
You're  strong  enough." 

"Oh,  Tony!"  Jan  whispered  piteously.  "I 
would  have  kept  her  if  I  could,  but  I  wasn't 
strong  enough  for  that." 

"Who  has  taken  her,  then?"  Tony  persisted. 
"Where  is  she?  I've  been  everywhere,  and  she 
isn't  in  the  bungalow." 

"God  has  taken  her,  Tony." 

"What  for?" 

"I  think,"  Jan  said,  timidly,  "it  was  because 
she  was  very  tired  and  ill  and  unhappy 

"But  is  she  happier  now  and  better?" 

"I  hope  so,  I  believe  she  is  ...  quite  happy 
and  well." 

"You're  sure?"  And  Tony's  eyes  searched 
Jan's  face.  "You're  sure  you  haven't  put  her 
somewhere?" 

"Tony,  I  want  Mummy  every  bit  as  much  as 
85 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

you  do.  Be  a  little  good  to  me,  sonny,  for  I'm 
dreadfully  sad." 

Jan  held  out  her  hand  and  Tony  took  it  doubt- 
fully. She  drew  him  nearer. 

"Try  to  be  good  to  me,  Tony,  and  love  me  a 
little  .  .  .  it's  all  so  hard." 

"I'll  be  good,"  he  said,  gravely,  "because  I 
promised  Mummy  .  .  .  but  I  can't  love  you  yet — 
because — "  here  Tony  sighed  deeply,  "I  don't 
seem  to  feel  like  it." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Jan,  lifting  him  on  to  her 
knee.  "Never  mind.  I'll  love  you  an  extra  lot 
to  make  up." 

"And  Fay?  "he  asked. 

"And  Fay — we  must  both  love  Fay  more  than 
ever  now." 

"I  do  love  Fay,"  Tony  said,  "because  I'm  used 
to  her.  She's  been  here  a  long  time  ..." 

Suddenly  his  mouth  went  down  at  the  corners 
and  he  leant  against  Jan's  shoulder  to  hide  his 
face.  "I  do  want  Mummy  so,"  he  whispered, 
as  the  slow,  difficult  tears  welled  over  and  fell. 
"I  like  so  much  to  look  at  her." 

It  was  early  afternoon,  the  hot  part  of  the  day. 
The  children  were  asleep  and  Jan  sat  on  the  big 
sofa,  finishing  a  warm  jersey  for  little  Fay  to 
wear  towards  the  end  of  the  voyage.  Peter,  by 
means  of  every  scrap  of  interest  he  possessed, 
had  managed  to  secure  her  a  three-berth  cabin 
in  a  mail  boat  due  to  leave  within  the  next  fort- 
night. He  insisted  that  she  must  take  Ayah, 
who  was  more  than  eager  to  go,  and  that  Ayah 

86 


The  Human  Touch 

could  easily  get  a  passage  back  almost  directly 
with  people  he  knew  who  were  coming  out  soon 
after  Jan  got  home.  He  had  written  to  them, 
and  they  would  write  to  meet  the  boat  at  Aden. 

There  was  nothing  Peter  did  not  seem  able  to 
arrange. 

In  the  flat  below  a  lady  was  singing  the  "  In- 
dian Love  Lyrics"  from  the  "Garden  of  Khama." 
She  had  a  powerful  voice  and  sang  with  consider- 
able passion. 

Less  than  the  dust  beneath  thy  chariot  wheel, 
Less  than  the  rust  that  never  stained  thy  sword. 

Jan  frowned  and  fidgeted. 

The  song  went  on,  finished,  and  then  the  lady 
sang  it  all  over  again.  Jan  turned  on  the  electric 
fan,  for  it  was  extremely  hot,  and  the  strong  con- 
tralto voice  made  her  feel  even  hotter.  The 
whirr  of  the  fan  in  no  way  drowned  the  voice, 
which  now  went  on  to  proclaim  with  much  brio 
that  the  temple  bells  were  ringing  and  the  month 
of  marriages  was  drawing  near.  And  then,  very 
slowly  and  solemnly,  but  quite  as  loudly  as  be- 
fore, came  "When  I  am  dying,  lean  over  me  ten- 
derly  " 

Jan  got  up  and  stamped.  Then  she  went 
swiftly  for  her  topee  and  gloves  and  parasol,  and 
fled  from  the  bungalow. 

Lalkhan  rushed  after  her  to  ask  if  she  wanted 
a  "tikka-gharri."  He  strongly  disapproved  of 
her  walking  in  the  streets  alone,  but  Jan  shook 
her  head.  The  lift-man  was  equally  eager  to 
procure  one,  but  again  Jan  defeated  his  desire 

87 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

and  walked  out  into  the  hot  street.  Somehow 
she  couldn't  bear  "The  Garden  of  Khama"  just 
then.  It  was  Hugo  Tancred's  favourite  verse, 
and  was  among  the  few  books  Fay  appeared  to 
possess,  Fay  who  was  lying  in  the  English  ceme- 
tery, and  so  glad  to  be  there  ...  at  twenty-five. 

What  was  the  good  of  life  and  love,  if  that  was 
all  it  led  to?  In  spite  of  the  heat  Jan  walked 
feverishly  and  fast,  down  the  shady  side  of  the 
Mayo  Road  into  Esplanade  Road,  where  the  big 
shops  were,  and,  just  then,  no  shade  at  all. 

The  hot  dust  seemed  to  rise  straight  out  of  the 
pavement  and  strike  her  in  the  face,  and  all  the 
air  was  full  of  the  fat  yellow  smell  that  prevails 
in  India  when  its  own  inhabitants  have  taken 
their  mid-day  meal. 

Each  bare-legged  gharri-man  slumbered  on 
the  little  box  of  his  carriage,  hanging  on  in  that 
amazingly  precarious  fashion  in  which  natives 
of  the  East  seem  able  to  sleep  anywhere. 

On  Jan  went,  anywhere,  anywhere  away  from 
the  garden  of  Khama  and  that  travesty  of  love, 
as  she  conceived  it.  She  remembered  the  day 
when  she  thought  them  such  charming  songs  and 
thrilled  in  sympathy  with  Fay  when  Hugo  sang 
them.  Oh,  why  did  that  woman  sing  them  to- 
day? Would  she  ever  get  the  sound  out  of  her 
ears? 

She  had  reached  Churchgate  Street,  which  was 
deserted  and  deep  in  shade.  She  turned  down 
and  presently  came  to  the  Cathedral  standing  in 
its  trim  garden  bright  with  English  flowers.  The 
main  door  was  open  and  Jan  went  in. 

88 


The  Human  Touch 

Here  the  haunting  love-lyrics  were  hushed.  It 
was  so  still,  not  even  a  sweeper  to  break  the 
blessed  peace. 

Restlessly,  Jan  walked  round  the  outer  aisles, 
reading  the  inscriptions  on  marble  tablets  and 
brasses,  many  of  them  dating  back  to  the  later 
eighteenth  and  early  nineteenth  centuries.  Men 
died  young  out  in  India  in  those  days;  hardly  any 
seemed  to  live  beyond  forty-two,  many  died  in 
the  twenties.  On  nearly  all  the  tablets  the 
words  "zeal"  or  " zealous"  regularly  appeared. 
With  regard  to  their  performance  of  their  duties 
these  dead  and  gone  men  who  had  helped  to 
make  the  India  of  to-day  had  evidently  had  a 
very  definite  notion  as  to  their  own  purpose  in 
life.  The  remarks  were  guarded  and  remarkably 
free  from  exaggerated  tributes  to  the  virtues  they 
celebrated.  One  Major-General  Bellasis  was  de- 
scribed as  "that  very  respectable  Officer — who 
departed  this  life  while  he  was  in  the  meritorious 
discharge  of  his  duty  presiding  at  the  Military 
Board."  Others  died  "from  exposure  to  the 
sun";  nearly  all  seemed  to  have  displayed  "un- 
remitting" or  "characteristic  zeal"  in  the  dis- 
charge of  their  duties. 

Jan  sat  down,  and  gradually  it  seemed  as 
though  the  spirits  and  souls  of  those  departed 
men,  those  ordinary  everyday  men — whose  de- 
scendants might  probably  be  met  any  day  in  the 
Yacht  Club  now — seemed  to  surround  her  in  a 
great  company,  all  pointing  in  one  direction  and 
with  one  voice  declaring,  "This  is  the  WAY." 

Jan  fell  on  her  knees  and  prayed  that  her 
89 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

stumbling  feet  might  be  guided  upon  it,  that  she 
should  in  no  wise  turn  aside,  however  steep  and 
stony  it  might  prove. 

And  as  she  knelt  there  came  upon  her  the  con- 
viction that  here  was  the  true  meaning  of  life  as 
lived  upon  the  earth;  just  this,  that  each  should 
do  his  job. 


90 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   END   OF   THE   DREAM 

SHE  walked  back  rather  slowly.    It  was  a  little 
cooler,  but   dusty,   and   the   hot  pavements 
made  her  feet  ache.     She  was  just  wondering 
whether  she  would  take  a  gharri  when  a  motor 
stopped  at  the  curb  and  Peter  got  out. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked  crossly. 
"Why  are  you  walking  in  all  this  heat?  You 
can't  play  these  games  in  India.  Get  in." 

He  held  the  door  open  for  her. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Ledgard,"  Jan  said, 
sweetly.  "Is  it  worth  while  for  such  a  little 
way?" 

"Get  in,"  Peter  said  again,  and  Jan  meekly 
got  in. 

"I  was  just  coming  to  see  you,  and  I  could 
have  taken  you  anywhere  you  wanted  to  go,  if 
only  you'd  waited.  Why  didn't  you  take  a 
gharri?" 

"Since  you  must  know,"  Jan  said,  smiling  at 
the  angry  Peter,  "I  went  out  because  I  wanted 
to  go  out.  And  I  walked  because  I  wanted  to 
walk." 

"You  can't  do  things  just  because  you  want 
to  do  'em  in  this  infernal  country — you  must  con- 
sider whether  it's  a  suitable  time." 

Jan  made  no  answer,  and  silence  reigned  till 
they  reached  the  bungalow. 

91 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Peter  followed  her  in. 

1 '  Where  did  you  go  ?  "  he  asked.     "  And  why  ? " 

"I  went  to  the  Cathedral,  and  my  reason  was 
that  I  simply  couldn't  stay  in  the  bungalow  be- 
cause the  lady  below  was  singing  'Less  than  the 
dust."1 

"I  know,"  Peter  said  grimly.  "Just  the  sort 
of  thing  she  would  sing." 

"She  sang  very  well,"  Jan  owned  honestly, 
"but  when  Fay  was  first  engaged  she  and  Hugo 
used  to  sing  those  songs  to  each  other — it  seemed 
all  day  long — and  this  afternoon  I  couldn't  bear 
it.  It  seemed  such  a  sham  somehow — so  false 
and  unreal,  if  it  only  led — to  this." 

"It's  real  enough  while  it  lasts,  you  know," 
Peter  remarked  in  the  detached,  elderly  tone  he 
sometimes  adopted.  "That  sort  of  thing's  all 
right  for  an  episode,  but  it's  a  bit  too  thin  for 
marriage." 

"But  surely  episodes  often  end  in  marriage?" 

"Not  that  sort,  and  if  they  do  it's  generally 
pretty  disastrous.  A  woman  who  felt  she  was 
less  than  the  dust  and  rust  and  weeds  and  all 
that  rot  wouldn't  be  much  good  to  a  man  who 
had  to  do  his  job,  for  she  wouldn't  do  hers,  you 
know." 

"Then  you,  too,  think  that's  the  main  thing— 
to  do  your  job?" 

"It  seems  to  me  it's  the  only  thing  that  jus- 
tifies one's  existence.  Anyway,  to  try  to  do  it 
decently." 

"And  you  don't  think  one  ought  to  expect  to 
be  happy  and  have  things  go  smoothly?" 

92 


The  End  of  the  Dream 

"Well,  they  won't  always,  you  know,  whether 
you  expect  it  or  not;  but  the  job  remains,  so  it's 
just  as  well  to  make  up  your  mind  to  it." 

"I  suppose,"  Jan  said  thoughtfully,  "that's  a 
religion." 

"It  pans  out  as  well  as  most,"  said  Peter. 

The  days  that  had  gone  so  slowly  went  quickly 
enough  now.  Jan  had  much  to  arrange  and  no 
word  came  from  Hugo.  She  succeeded  in  getting 
the  monthly  bills  from  the  cook,  and  paid  them, 
and  very  timidly  she  asked  Peter  if  she  might 
pay  the  wages  for  the  tune  his  servants  had 
waited  upon  them;  but  Peter  was  so  huffy  and 
cross  she  never  dared  to  mention  it  again. 

The  night  before  they  all  sailed  Peter  dined 
with  her,  and,  after  dinner,  took  her  for  one  last 
drive  over  Malabar  Hill.  The  moon  was  full, 
and  when  they  reached  Ridge  Road  he  stopped 
the  car  and  they  got  out  and  stood  on  the  cliff, 
looking  over  the  city  just  as  they  had  done  on 
her  first  evening  in  Bombay. 

Some  scented  tree  was  in  bloom  and  the  ah* 
was  full  of  its  soft  fragrance. 

For  some  minutes  they  stood  in  silence,  then 
Jan  broke  it  by  asking:  "Mr.  Ledgard,  could 
Hugo  take  the  children  from  me?" 

"He  could,  of  course,  legally — but  I  don't  for 
a  minute  imagine  he  will,  for  he  couldn't  keep 
them.  What  about  his  people?  Will  they  want 
to  interfere?" 

"I  don't  think  so;  from  the  little  he  told  us 
they  are  not  very  well  off.  They  live  in  Guernsey. 
His  father  was  something  in  salt,  I  think,  out 

93 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

here.  We've  none  of  us  seen  them.  They  didn't 
come  to  Fay's  wedding.  I  gather  they  are  very 
strict  in  their  views — both  his  father  and  mother 
— and  there  are  two  sisters.  But  Fay  said  Hugo 
hardly  ever  wrote — or  heard  from  them." 

"  There's  just  one  thing  you  must  face,  Miss 
Ross,"  and  Peter  felt  a  brute  as  he  looked  at 
Jan  pale  and  startled  in  the  bright  moonlight. 
"Hugo  Tancred  might  marry  again." 

"Oh,  surely  no  one  would  marry  him  after  all 
this!" 

"Whoever  did  would  probably  know  nothing 
of  'all  this.'  Remember  Hugo  Tancred  has  a 
way  with  women;  he's  a  fascinating  chap  when 
he  likes,  he's  good-looking  and  plausible,  and  al- 
ways has  an  excellent  reason  for  all  his  misfor- 
tunes. If  he  does  marry  again  he'll  marry  money, 
and  then  he  might  demand  the  children." 

"Perhaps  she  wouldn't  want  them." 

"We'll  hope  not." 

"And  I  can  do  nothing — nothing  to  make 
them  safe?" 

"I  fear — nothing — only  your  best  for  them." 

"I'll  do  that,"  said  Jan. 

They  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the  scented 
stillness  of  the  night.  The  shadows  were  black 
and  sharp  in  the  bright  moonlight  and  the  tom- 
toms throbbed  in  the  city  below. 

"I  wonder,"  Jan  said  presently,  "if  I  shall  ever 
be  able  to  do  anything  for  you,  Mr.  Ledgard. 
You  have  done  everything  for  us  out  here." 

"Would  you  really  like  to  do  something?" 
Peter  asked  eagerly.  "I  wouldn't  have  men- 

94 


The  End  of  the  Dream 

tioned  it  if  you  hadn't  said  that  just  now.  Would 
you  write  pretty  often?  You  see,  I've  no  people 
of  my  very  own.  Aunts  and  uncles  and  cousins 
don't  keep  in  touch  with  one  out  here.  They're 
kind,  awfully  kind  when  I  go  home  on  leave,  but 
it  takes  a  man's  own  folk  to  remember  to  write 
every  mail." 

"I'll  write  every  mail,"  Jan  promised  eagerly, 
"and  when  you  take  your  next  leave,  remember 
we  expect  you  at  Wren's  End." 

"I'll  remember,"  said  Peter,  "and  it  may  be 
sooner  than  you  think." 

They  sailed  next  day.  Jan  had  spent  six  weeks 
in  Bombay,  and  the  whole  thing  seemed  a  dream. 

The  voyage  back  was  very  different  from  the 
voyage  out.  The  boat  was  crowded,  and  nearly 
all  were  Service  people  going  home  on  leave. 
Jan  found  them  very  kind  and  friendly,  and  the 
children,  with  plenty  of  others  to  play  with, 
were  for  the  most  part  happy  and  good. 

The  journey  across  France  was  rather  horrid. 
Little  Fay  was  as  obstreperous  as  Tony  was  dis- 
agreeably silent  and  aloof.  Jan  thanked  heaven 
when  the  crowded  train  steamed  into  Charing 
Cross. 

There,  at  the  very  door  of  then-  compartment, 
a  girl  was  waiting.  A  girl  so  small,  she  might 
have  been  a  child  except  for  a  certain  decision 
and  capability  about  everything  she  did.  She 
seized  Jan,  kissed  her  hurriedly  and  announced 
that  she  had  got  a  nice  little  furnished  flat  for 
them  till  they  should  go  to  the  country,  and  that 
Hannah  had  tea  ready;  this  young  person,  her- 

95 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

self,  helped  to  carry  their  smaller  baggage  to  a 
taxi,  packed  them  in,  demanded  Jan's  keys  and 
announced  that  she  would  bring  the  luggage  in 
another  taxi.  She  gave  the  address  to  the  man, 
and  a  written  slip  to  Jan,  and  vanished  to  collect 
their  cabin  baggage. 

It  was  all  done  so  briskly  and  efficiently  that 
it  left  Ayah  and  the  children  quite  breathless, 
accustomed  as  they  were  to  the  leisurely  methods 
of  the  East. 

"Who  is  vat  mem?"  asked  little  Fay,  as  the 
taxi  door  was  slammed  by  this  energetic  young 
person. 

"Is  she  quite  a  mem?"  suggested  the  accurate 
Tony.  "Is  she  old  enough  or  big  enough?" 

"Who  is  vat  mem?"  little  Fay  repeated. 

"That,"  said  Jan  with  considerable  satisfaction 
in  her  voice,  "is  Meg." 


96 


CHAPTER  IX 

MEG 

IT  was  inevitable  as  the  refrain  of  a  rondeau 
that  when  Jan  said  "that's  Meg"  little  Fay 
should  demand  "What  nelse?" 

Now  there  was  a  good  deal  of  "nelse"  about 
Meg,  and  she  requires  some  explanation,  going 
back  several  years. 

Like  most  Scots,  Anthony  Ross  had  been 
faithful  to  his  relations  whether  he  felt  affection 
for  them  or  not;  sometimes  even  when  they  had 
not  a  thought  in  common  with  him  and  he  rather 
disliked  them  than  otherwise. 

And  this  was  so  in  the  case  of  one  Amelia 
Ross,  his  first  cousin,  who  was  head-mistress  of 
a  flourishing  and  well-established  school  for 
"young  ladies,"  in  the  Regent's  Park  district. 

She  had  been  a  head-mistress  for  many  years, 
and  was  well  over  fifty  when  she  married  a  meek, 
small,  nothingly  man  who  had  what  Thackeray 
calls  "a  little  patent  place."  And  it  appeared 
that  she  added  the  husband  to  the  school  in  much 
the  same  spirit  as  she  would  have  increased  the 
number  of  chairs  in  her  dining-room,  and  with 
no  more  appreciable  result  in  her  life.  On  her 
marriage  she  became  Mrs.  Ross-Morton,  and 
Mr.  Morton  went  in  and  out  of  the  front  door, 
breakfasted  and  dined  at  Ribston  Hall,  caught 

97 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

his  bus  at  the  North  Gate  and  went  daily  to  his 
meek  little  work.  It  is  presumed  that  he  lived 
on  terms  of  affectionate  intimacy  with  his  wife, 
but  no  one  who  saw  them  together  could  have 
gathered  this. 

Now  Anthony  Ross  disliked  his  cousin  Amelia. 
He  detested  her  school,  which  he  considered  was 
one  of  the  worst  examples  of  a  bad  old  period. 
He  suspected  her  of  being  hard  and  grasping, 
he  knew  she  was  dull,  and  her  husband  bored 
him — not  to  tears,  but  to  profanity.  Yet  since 
she  was  his  cousin  and  a  hard-working,  upright 
woman,  and  since  they  had  played  together  as 
children  in  Scotland  and  her  father  and  mother 
had  been  kind  to  him  then,  he  could  never  bring 
himself  to  drop  Amelia.  Not  for  worlds  would 
he  have  allowed  Jan  or  Fay  to  go  to  her  school, 
but  he  did  allow  them,  or  rather  he  humbly  en- 
treated them,  to  visit  it  occasionally  when  in- 
vited to  some  function  or  other.  Jan's  education 
after  her  mother's  death  had  been  the  thinnest 
scrape  sandwiched  between  many  household  cares 
and  much  attendance  upon  her  father's  whims. 
Fay  was  allowed  classes  and  visiting  governesses, 
but  their  father  could  never  bring  himself  to 
spare  either  of  them  to  the  regular  discipline  of 
school,  and  Cousin  Amelia  bewailed  the  desul- 
tory training  of  Anthony's  children. 

In  1905,  Jan  and  Fay  had  been  to  a  party  at 
Ribston  Hall:  tea  in  the  garden  followed  by  a 
pastoral  play.  Anthony  was  sitting  in  the  bal- 
cony, smoking,  when  the  girls  came  back.  He 
saw  then1  hansom  and  ran  downstairs  to  meet 


Meg 

them,  as  he  always  did.  They  were  a  family  who 
went  in  for  affectionate  greetings. 

"Daddie,"  cried  Fay,  seizing  her  father  by  the 
arm,  "one  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world  has 
happened.  We  have  found  an  interesting  person 
at  Ribston  Hall." 

Jan  took  the  other  arm.  "We  can't  possibly 
tell  you  all  about  it  under  an  hour,  so  we'd  better 
go  and  sit  in  the  balcony."  And  they  gently 
propelled  him  towards  the  staircase. 

"Not  if  you're  going  to  discuss  Cousin  Amelia," 
Anthony  protested.  "You  have  carrying  voices, 
both  of  you." 

"Cousin  Amelia  is  only  incidental,"  Jan  said, 
when  they  were  all  three  seated  in  the  balcony. 
"The  main  theme  is  concerned  with  a  queer 
little  pixie  creature  called  Meg  Morton.  She's 
a  pupil-governess,  and  she's  sixteen  and  a  half — 
just  the  same  age  as  Fay." 

"She  doesn't  reach  up  to  Jan's  elbow,"  Fay 
added,  "and  she  chaperons  the  girls  for  music 
and  singing,  and  sits  in  the  drawing-class  because 
the  master  can't  be  quite  seventy  yet." 

"She's  the  wee-est  thing  you  ever  saw,  and 
they  dress  her  in  Cousin  Amelia's  discarded  Sun- 
day frocks." 

"That's  impossible,"  Anthony  interrupted. 
"Amelia  is  so  massive  and  square;  if  the  girl's 
so  small  she'd  look  like  'the  Marchioness.'  ' 

"She  does,  she  does!"  Jan  cried  delightedly. 
"Of  course  the  garments  are  'made  down/  but 
in  the  most  elderly  way  possible.  Daddie,  can 
you  picture  a  Botticelli  angel  of  sixteen,  with 

99 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

masses  of  Titian-red  hair,  clad  in  a  queer  plush 
garment  once  worn  by  Cousin  Amelia,  that  re- 
tains all  its  ancient  frumpiness  of  line.  And  it's 
not  only  her  appearance  that's  so  quaint,  she  is 
quaint  inside." 

"We  were  attracted  by  her  hair,"  Fay  went 
on  "(You'll  go  down  like  a  ninepin  before  that 
hair),  and  we  got  her  in  a  corner  and  hemmed 
her  hi  and  declared  it  was  her  duty  to  attend  to 
us  because  we  were  strangers  and  shy,  and  in 
three  minutes  we  were  friends.  Sixteen,  Daddie ! 
And  a  governess-pupil  in  Cousin  Amelia's  school. 
She's  a  niece  of  the  little  husband,  and  Cousin 
Amelia  is  preening  herself  like  anything  because 
she  takes  her  for  nothing  and  makes  her  work 
like  ten  people." 

"Did  the  little  girl  say  so?" 

"Of  course  not,"  Jan  answered  indignantly, 
"but  Cousin  Amelia  did.  Oh,  how  thankful  I 
am  she  is  your  cousin,  dear,  and  once-removed 
from  us!" 

"How  many  generations  will  it  take  to  remove 
her  altogether?"  Fay  asked.  "However,"  she 
added,  "if  we  can  have  the  pixie  out  and  give 
her  a  good  time  I  shan't  mind  the  relationship  so 
much.  We  must  do  something,  Daddie.  What 
shall  it  be?" 

Anthony  Ross  smoked  thoughtfully  and  said 
very  little.  Perhaps  he  did  not  even  listen  with 
marked  attention,  because  he  was  enjoying  his 
girls.  Just  to  see  them  healthy  and  happy;  to 
know  that  they  were  naturally  kind  and  gay; 
to  hear  them  frank  and  eager  and  loquacious — 

100 


Meg 

sometimes  gave  him  a  sensation  of  almost  physical 
pleasure.  He  was  like  an  idler  basking  in  the 
sun,  conscious  of  nothing  but  just  the  warmth 
and  comfort  of  it. 

Whatever  those  girls  wanted  they  always  got. 
Anthony's  diplomacy  was  requisitioned  and  was, 
as  usual,  successful;  for,  hi  spite  of  her  disap- 
proval, Mrs.  Ross-Morton  could  never  resist 
her  cousin's  charm.  This  time  the  result  was 
that  one  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  middle  of 
June  little  Meg  Morton,  bearing  a  battered 
leather  portmanteau  and  clad  hi  the  most-re- 
cently-converted plush  abomination,  appeared  at 
the  tall  house  hi  St.  George's  Square  to  stay  over 
the  week-end. 

It  was  the  mid-term  holiday,  and  from  the 
first  moment  to  the  last  the  visit  was  one  almost 
delirious  orgy  of  pleasure  to  the  little  pupil- 
governess. 

It  was  also  a  revelation. 

It  would  be  hard  to  conceive  of  anything 
odder  than  the  appearance  of  Meg  Morton  at 
this  time.  She  just  touched  five  feet  in  height, 
and  was  very  slenderly  and  delicately  made, 
with  absurd,  tiny  hands  and  feet.  Yet  there 
was  a  finish  about  the  thin  little  body  that  pro- 
claimed her  fully  grown.  Her  eyes,  with  their 
thick,  dark  lashes,  looked  overlarge  in  the  pale 
little  pointed  face;  strange  eyes  and  sombre, 
with  big,  bright  pupil,  and  curious  dark-blue  iris 
flecked  with  brown.  Her  features  were  regular, 
and  her  mouth  would  have  been  pretty  had  the 
lips  not  lacked  colour.  As  it  was,  all  the  colour 

101 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

about  Meg  seemed  concentrated  in  her  hair; 
red  as  a  flame  and  rippled  as  a  river  under  a 
fresh  breeze.  There  was  so  much  of  it,  too,  the 
little  head  seemed  bowed  hi  apology  beneath 
its  weight. 

Yet  for  the  time  being  Meg  forgot  to  be  apolo- 
getic about  her  hah*,  for  Anthony  and  his  girls 
frankly  admired  it. 

These  adorable,  kind,  amusing  people  actually 
admired  it,  and  said  so.  Hitherto  Meg's  experi- 
ence had  been  that  it  was  a  thing  to  be  slurred 
over,  like  a  deformity.  If  mentioned,  it  was  to 
be  deprecated.  In  the  strictly  Evangelical  circles 
where  hitherto  her  lot  had  been  cast,  they  even 
tried  vainly  to  explain  it  away. 

She  had,  of  course,  heard  of  artists,  but  she 
never  expected  to  meet  any.  That  sort  of  thing 
lay  outside  the  lives  of  those  who  had  to  make 
their  living  as  quickly  as  possible  in  beaten 
tracks;  tracks  so  well-beaten,  hi  fact,  that  all 
the  flowers  had  been  trodden  underfoot  and 
exterminated. 

Meg,  at  sixteen,  had  received  so  little  from 
life  that  her  expectations  were  of  the  humblest. 
And  as  she  stood  before  the  glass  in  a  pretty 
bedroom,  fastening  her  one  evening  dress  (of 
shiny  black  silk  that  crackled,  made  with  the 
narrow  V  in  front  affected  by  Mrs.  Ross-Morton), 
preparatory  to  going  to  the  play  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  she  could  have  exclaimed,  like  the 
little  old  woman  of  the  story,  "This  be  never  I !" 

Anthony  Ross  was  wholly  surprising  to  Meg. 

This  handsome,  merry  gentleman  with  thick, 
102 


Meg 

brown  hair  as  crinkly  as  her  own;  who  was 
domineered  over  and  palpably  adored  by  these 
two,  to  her,  equally  amazing  girls — seemed  so 
very,  very  young  to  be  anybody's  father. 

He  frankly  owned  to  enjoying  things. 

Now,  according  to  Meg's  experience,  grown- 
up people — elderly  people — seldom  enjoyed  any- 
thing; above  all,  never  alluded  to  their  enjoy- 
ment. 

Life  was  a  thing  to  be  endured  with  fortitude, 
its  sorrows  borne  with  Christian  resignation; 
its  joys,  if  there  were  any  joys,  discreetly  slurred 
over.  Joys  were  insidious,  dangerous  things 
that  might  lead  to  the  leaving  undone  of  obvious 
duties.  To  seek  joy  and  insure  its  being  shared 
by  others,  bravely  and  honestly  believing  it  to 
be  an  excellent  thing,  was  to  Meg  an  entirely 
unknown  frame  of  mind. 

After  the  play,  in  Meg's  room  the  three  girls 
were  brushing  their  hah*  together;  to  be  ac- 
curate, Jan  was  brushing  Fay's  and  Meg  ad- 
miring the  process. 

"Have  you  any  sisters?"  Jan  asked.  She 
was  always  interested  in  people's  relations. 

"No,"  said  Meg.  "There  are,  mercifully,  only 
three  of  us,  my  two  brothers  and  me.  If  there 
had  been  any  more  I  don't  know  what  my  poor 
little  Papa  would  have  done." 

"Why  do  you  call  him  your  'poor  little  papa'?" 
Fay  asked  curiously. 

"Because  he  is  poor — dreadfully — and  little, 
and  very  melancholy.  He  suffers  so  from  de- 
pression." 

103 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"Why?"  asked  the  downright  Jan. 

"Partly  because  he  has  indigestion,  constant 
indigestion,  and  then  there's  us,  and  boys  are 
so  expensive,  they  will  grow  so.  It  upsets  him 
dreadfully." 

"But  they  can't  help  growing,"  Fay  objected. 

"It  wouldn't  matter  so  much  if  they  didn't 
both  do  it  at  once.  But  you  see,  there's  only  a 
year  between  them,  and  they're  just  about  the 
same  size.  If  only  one  had  been  smaller,  he 
could  have  worn  the  outgrown  things.  As  it  is, 
it's  always  new  clothes  for  both  of  them.  Papa's 
are  no  sort  of  use,  and  even  the  cheapest  suits 
cost  a  lot,  and  boots  are  perfectly  awful." 

Meg  looked  so  serious  that  Fay  and  Jan,  who 
were  like  the  lilies  of  the  field,  and  expected  new 
and  pretty  frocks  at  reasonable  intervals  as  a 
matter  of  course,  looked  serious  too;  for  the 
first  tune  confronted  by  a  problem  whose  pos- 
sibility they  had  never  even  considered  be- 
fore. 

"He  must  be  pleased  with  you,"  Jan  said, 
encouragingly.  "  You're  not  too  big." 

"Yes,  but  then  I'm  not  a  boy.  Papa's  clothes 
would  have  made  down  for  me  beautifully  if 
I'd  been  a  boy;  as  it  is,  they're  no  use."  Meg 
sighed,  then  added  more  cheerfully.  "But  I 
cost  less  in  other  ways,  and  several  relations 
send  old  clothes  to  me.  They  are  never  too 
small." 

"Do  you  like  the  relations'  clothes?"  Fay 
asked. 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Meg,  simply.     "They 


Meg 

are  generally  hideous;  but,  after  all,  they  cover 
me  and  save  expense." 

The  spoiled  daughters  of  Anthony  Ross  gazed 
at  Meg  with  horror-stricken  eyes.  To  them 
this  seemed  a  most  tragic  state  of  things. 

"Do  they  all,"  Fay  asked  timidly,  "wear 
such  .  .  .  rich  materials — like  Cousin  Amelia?" 

"They're  fond  of  plush,  as  a  rule,  but  there's 
velveteen  as  well,  and  sometimes  a  cloth  dress. 
One  was  mustard-coloured,  and  embittered  my 
life  for  a  whole  year." 

Jan  suddenly  ceased  to  brush  Fay's  hair  and 
went  and  sat  on  the  bed  beside  Meg  and  put  her 
arm  round  her.  Fay's  pretty  face,  framed  in 
fluffy  masses  of  fair  hair,  was  solemn  in  excess 
of  sympathy. 

"I  shouldn't  care  a  bit  if  only  the  boys  were 
through  Sandhurst  and  safely  into  the  Indian 
Army — but  I  do  hate  them  having  to  go  with- 
out nearly  everything.  Trevor's  a  King's  Cadet, 
but  they  wouldn't  give  us  two  cadetships  .  .  . 
Still,"  she  added,  more  cheerfully,  "it's  cheaper 
than  anything  else  for  a  soldier's  son." 

"Is  your  father  a  soldier?"  asked  Jan. 

"Oh,  yes,  a  major  hi  the  Westshires;  but  he 
had  to  leave  the  Army  because  of  his  health,  and 
his  pension  is  very  small,  and  mother  had  so 
little  money.  I  sometimes  think  it  killed  her 
trying  to  do  everything  on  nothing." 

"Were  you  quite  small  when  she  died?"  Fay 
asked  in  a  sympathetic  whisper. 

"Oh,  no;  I  was  nearly  twelve,  and  quite  as  big 
as  I  am  now.  Then  I  kept  house  while  the  boys 

105 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

were  at  Bedford,  but  when  they  went  to  Sand- 
hurst poor  little  Papa  thought  I'd  better  get 
some  education,  too,  and  Uncle  John's  wife 
offered  to  take  me  for  nothing,  so  here  I  am. 
HERE,  it's  too  wonderful.  Who  could  have 
dreamed  that  Ribston  Hall  would  lead  to  this?" 
And  Meg  snuggled  down  in  Jan's  kind  embrace, 
her  red  hair  spread  around  her  like  a  veil. 

"Are  some  of  the  richly-dressed  relations 
nice?"  Jan  asked  hopefully. 

"I  don't  know  if  you'd  think  them  nice — you 
seem  to  expect  such  a  lot  from  people — but 
they're  quite  kind — only  it's  a  different  sort  of 
kindness  from  yours  here.  They  don't  laugh 
and  expect  you  to  enjoy  yourself,  like  your  father. 
My  brothers  say  they  are  dull  .  .  .  they  call 
them — I'm  afraid  it's  very  ungrateful — the  weari- 
ful rich.  But  I  expect  we're  weariful  to  them 
too.  I  suppose  poor  relations  are  boring  if  you're 
well-off  yourself.  But  we  get  pretty  tired,  too, 
when  they  talk  us  over." 

"But  do  you  mean  to  say  they  talk  you  over 
to  you?" 

"Always,"  Meg  said  firmly.  "How  badly  we 
manage,  how  improvident  we  are,  how  Papa 
ought  to  rouse  himself  and  I  ought  to  manage 
better,  and  how  foolish  it  is  to  let  the  boys  go 
into  the  Army  instead  of  banks  and  things  .  .  . 
And  yet,  you  know,  it  hasn't  cost  much  for 
Trevor,  and  once  he's  in  he'll  be  able  to  manage, 
and  Jo  said  he'd  enlist  if  there  was  any  more 
talk  of  banks,  and  poor  little  Papa  had  to  give 
in — so  there  it  is." 

106 


Meg 

"How  much  older  are  they  than  you?"  Jan 
asked. 

"  Trevor's  nineteen  and  Jo's  eighteen,  and  they 
are  the  greatest  darlings  in  the  world.  They 
always  lifted  the  heavy  saucepans  for  me  at 
Bedford,  and  filled  the  buckets  and  did  the  out- 
sides  of  the  windows,  and  carried  up  the  coals  to 
Papa's  sitting-room  before  they  went  to  school 
in  the  morning,  and  they  very  seldom  grumbled 
at  my  cooking  ..." 

"But  where  were  the  servants?"  Fay  asked 
innocently. 

Meg  laughed.  "Oh,  we  couldn't  have  any 
servants.  A  woman  came  in  the  morning.  Papa 
dined  at  his  club,  and  I  managed  for  the  boys 
and  me.  But,  oh  dear,  they  do  eat  a  lot,  and 
joints  are  so  dear.  Sheep's  heads  and  things 
pall  if  you  have  them  more  than  once  a  week. 
They're  such  a  mixty  sort  of  meat,  so  gummy." 

"/  can  cook,"  Jan  announced,  then  added 
humbly,  "at  least,  I've  been  to  classes,  but  I 
don't  get  much  practice.  Cook  isn't  at  all  fond 
of  having  me  messing  in  her  kitchen." 

"It  isn't  the  cooking  that's  so  difficult,"  said 
Meg;  "it's  getting  things  to  cook.  It's  all  very 
well  for  the  books  to  say  'Take'  this  and  that. 
My  experience  is  that  you  can  never  'take'  any- 
thing. You  have  to  buy  every  single  ingredient, 
and  there's  never  anything  like  enough.  We 
tried  being  fruitarians  and  living  on  dates  and 
figs  and  nuts  all  squashed  together,  but  it  didn't 
seem  to  come  a  bit  cheaper,  for  the  boys  were 
hungry  again  directly  and  said  it  was  hog- wash." 

107 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"Was  your  papa  a  fruitarian  too?"  Fay  asked. 

"Oh,  no,  he  can't  play  those  tricks;  he  has  to 
be  most  careful.  He  never  had  his  meals  with 
us.  Our  meals  would  have  been  too  rough  for 
him.  I  got  him  breakfast  and  afternoon  tea. 
He  generally  went  out  for  the  others." 

Jan  and  Fay  looked  thoughtful. 

Amelia  Ross-Morton  was  a  fan'  judge  of  char- 
acter. When  she  consented  to  take  her  husband's 
niece  as  a  governess-pupil  she  had  been  dubious 
as  to  the  result.  She  very  soon  discovered,  how- 
ever, that  the  small  red-haired  girl  was  absolutely 
trustworthy,  that  she  had  a  power  of  keeping 
order  quite  disproportionate  to  her  size,  that  she 
got  through  a  perfectly  amazing  amount  of  work, 
and  did  whatever  she  was  asked  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Thus  she  became  a  valuable  factor  in 
the  school,  receiving  nothing  hi  return  save  her 
food  and  such  clothes  as  Mrs.  Ross-Morton  con- 
sidered too  shabby  for  her  own  wear. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  year  Meg  ceased  to 
receive  any  lessons.  Her  day  was  fully  occupied 
in  teaching  the  younger  and  chaperoning  the 
elder  girls.  Only  one  stipulation  ciid  she  make 
at  the  beginning  of  each  term — that  she  should 
be  allowed  to  accept,  on  all  reasonable  occasions, 
the  invitations  of  Anthony  Ross  and  his  daugh- 
ters, and  she  made  this  condition  with  so  much 
firmness  that  Anthony's  cousin  knew  better  than 
to  be  unreasonably  domineering,  as  was  her  usual 
habit.  Moreover,  though  it  was  against  her 
principles  to  do  anything  to  further  the  enjoy- 

108 


Meg 

ment  of  persons  in  a  subordinate  position,  she 
was,  in  a  way,  flattered  that  Anthony  and  his 
girls  should  thus  single  out  her  "niece  by  mar- 
riage" and  appear  to  enjoy  her  society. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Meg  went  a  good  deal 
to  St.  George's  Square  and  nearly  always  spent 
part  of  each  holiday  with  Fay  and  Jan  wherever 
they  happened  to  be. 

The  queer  clothes  were  kept  for  wear  at  Rib- 
ston  Hall,  and  by  degrees — although  she  never 
had  any  money — she  became  possessed  of  gar- 
ments more  suitable  to  her  age  and  colouring. 

Again  and  again  Anthony  painted  her.  She 
sat  for  him  with  untiring  patience  and  devotion. 
She  was  always  entirely  at  her  ease  with  him, 
and  prattled  away  quite  simply  of  the  life  that 
seemed  to  him  so  inexpressibly  hard  and  dreary. 

Only  once  had  he  interfered  on  her  behalf  at 
Ribston  Hall,  and  then  sorely  against  Meg's  will. 
She  was  sitting  for  him  one  day,  with  her  veil  of 
flaming  hair  spread  round  her,  when  she  said, 
suddenly,  "I  wonder  why  it  is  incorrect  to  send 
invitations  by  post  to  people  living  in  the  same 
town?" 

"But  it  isn't,"  Anthony  objected.  "Every- 
body does  it." 

"Not  in  schools,"  Meg  said  firmly.  "Mrs. 
Ross-Morton  will  never  send  invitations  to  people 
living  in  London  through  the  post — she  says  it 
isn't  polite.  They  must  go  by  hand." 

"I  never  heard  such  nonsense,"  Anthony  ex- 
claimed crossly.  "If  she  doesn't  send  'em  by 
post,  how  does  she  send  them?" 

109 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"I  take  them  generally,  in  the  evening,  after 
school,  and  deliver  them  at  all  the  houses.  Some 
are  fairly  near,  of  course — a  lot  of  her  friends 
live  in  Regent's  Park — but  sometimes  I  have  to 
go  quite  a  long  way  by  bus.  I  don't  mind  that 
in  summer,  when  it's  light,  but  in  winter  it's  hor- 
rid going  about  the  lonely  roads  .  .  .  People 
speak  to  one  ..." 

Anthony  Ross  stepped  from  behind  his  easel. 

"And  what  do  you  do?"  he  asked. 

"I  run,"  Meg  said  simply,  "and  I  can  gener- 
ally run  much  faster  than  they  do  ...  but  it's 
a  little  bit  frightening." 

"It's  infernal,"  Anthony  said  furiously.  "I 
shall  speak  to  Amelia  at  once.  You  are  never  to 
do  it  again." 

In  vain  did  Meg  plead,  almost  with  tears,  that 
he  would  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  was  roused 
and  firm. 

He  did  "speak  to  Amelia."  He  astonished 
that  good  lady  as  much  as  he  annoyed  her.  Nev- 
ertheless Mrs.  Ross-Morton  used  the  penny  post 
for  her  invitations  as  long  as  Meg  remained  at 
Ribston  Hall. 

At  the  end  of  two  years  Major  Morton,  who 
had  removed  from  Bedford  to  Cheltenham,  wrote 
a  long,  querulous  letter  to  his  sister-in-law  to  the 
effect  that  if — like  the  majority  of  girls  nowadays 
—his  daughter  chose  to  spend  her  life  far  from 
his  sheltering  care,  it  was  time  she  earned  some- 
thing. 

Mrs.  Ross-Morton  replied  that  only  now  was 
Meg  beginning  to  repay  all  the  expense  incurred 

110 


Meg 

on  her  behalf  in  the  way  of  board,  clothing  and 
tuition;  and  it  was  most  unreasonable  to  expect 
any  salary  for  quite  another  year. 

Major  Morton  decided  to  remove  Meg  from 
Ribston  Hall. 

Many  acrimonious  letters  passed  between  her 
aunt  and  her  father  before  this  was  finally  accom- 
plished, and  Meg  left  "  under  a  cloud." 

To  her  great  astonishment,  her  meek  little 
uncle  appeared  at  Paddington  to  see  her  off. 
Just  as  the  train  was  starting  he  thrust  an  en- 
velope into  her  hand. 

"It  hasn't  been  fair,"  he  almost  shouted — for 
the  train  was  already  beginning  to  move.  "You 
worked  hard,  you  deserved  some  pay  ...  a 
little  present  .  .  .  but  please  don't  mention  it 
to  your  aunt  .  .  .  She  is  so  decided  hi  her 
views  .  .  ." 

When  Meg  opened  the  envelope  she  found 
three  ten-pound  notes.  She  had  never  seen  so 
much  money  before,  and  burst  into  tears;  but  it 
was  not  because  of  the  magnitude  of  the  gift. 
She  felt  she  had  never  properly  appreciated  her 
poor  little  uncle,  and  her  conscience  smote  her. 

This  was  at  Christmas. 

The  weariful  rich  sat  in  conclave  over  Meg, 
and  it  was  decided  that  she  should  in  March 
go  as  companion  and  secretary  to  a  certain  Mrs. 
Trent  slightly  known  to  one  of  them. 

Mrs.  Trent  was  kindly,  careless,  and  quite 
generous  as  regards  money.  She  had  grown-up 
daughters,  and  they  lived  in  one  of  the  Home 
Counties  where  there  are  many  country-houses 

111 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

and  plenty  of  sport.  Meg  proved  to  be  exceed- 
ingly useful,  did  whatever  she  was  asked  to  do, 
and  a  great  many  things  no  one  had  ever  done 
before.  She  shared  in  the  fun,  and  for  the  first 
time  since  her  mother  died  was  not  overworked. 

Her  employer  was  as  keen  on  every  form  of 
pleasure  as  her  own  daughters.  She  exercised 
the  very  smallest  supervision  over  them  and 
none  at  all  over  the  "quite  useful"  little  com- 
panion. 

Many  men  came  to  the  easy-going,  lavish 
house,  and  Meg,  with  pretty  frocks,  abundant 
leisure  and  deliciously  prim  Ribston-Hallish 
manners,  came  in  for  her  full  share  of  admira- 
tion. 

It  happened  that  at  the  end  of  July  Anthony 
Ross  came  up  to  London  in  the  afternoon  to 
attend  and  speak  at  a  dinner  in  aid  of  some 
artists'  charity.  He  and  Jan  were  staying  with 
friends  at  Teddington;  Fay,  an  aunt  and  the 
servants  were  already  at  Wren's  End — all  but 
Hannah,  the  severe  Scottish  housemaid,  who 
remained  in  charge.  She  was  grim  and  gaunt 
and  plain,  with  a  thick,  black  moustache,  and 
Anthony  liked  her  less  than  he  could  have  wished. 
But  she  had  been  Jan's  nurse,  and  was  faithful 
and  trustworthy  beyond  words.  He  would  never 
let  Jan  go  to  the  country  ahead  of  him,  for  with- 
out her  he  always  left  behind  everything  most 
vital  to  his  happiness,  so  she  was  to  join  him 
next  day  and  see  that  his  painting-tackle  was 
all  packed. 

The  house  in  St.  George's  Square  was  nominally 
112 


Meg 

shut  up  and  shrouded  in  dust-sheets,  but  Hannah 
had  "opened  up"  the  dining-room  on  Anthony's 
behalf,  and  there  he  sat  and  slumbered  till  she 
should  choose  to  bring  him  some  tea. 

He  was  awakened  by  an  opening  door  and 
Hannah's  voice  announcing,  not  tea,  but: 

"Miss  Morton  to  see  you,  sir." 

There  seemed  a  thousand  "r's"  in  both  the 
Morton  and  the  sir,  and  Anthony,  who  felt  that 
there  was  something  ominous  and  arresting  in 
Hannah's  voice,  was  wide-awake  before  she 
could  shut  the  door  again. 

Sure  enough  it  was  Meg,  clad  in  a  log  grey 
dust-cloak  and  motor  bonnet,  the  grey  veil  flung 
back  from  a  very  pale  face. 

Meg,  looking  a  wispy  little  shadow  of  woe. 

Anthony  came  froward  with  outstretched 
hands. 

"Meg,  my  child,  what  good  wind  has  blown 
you  here  this  afternoon?  I  thought  you  were 
having  ever  such  a  gay  time  down  in  the  coun- 
try." 

But  Meg  made  no  effort  to  grasp  the  greeting 
hands.  On  the  contrary,  she  moved  so  that  the 
whole  width  of  the  dining-room  table  was  be- 
tween them. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  "you  mustn't  shake  hands 
with  me  till  I  tell  you  what  I've  done  .  .  .  per- 
haps you  won't  want  to  then." 

And  Anthony  saw  that  she  was  trembling. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  he  said.  "Something's 
wrong,  I  can  see.  What  is  it?" 

But  she  stood  where  she  was,  looking  at  him 
113 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

with  large,  tragic  eyes;  laid  down  a  leather 
despatch-case  she  was  carrying,  and  seized  the 
edge  of  the  table  as  if  for  support. 

"I'd  rather  not  sit  down  yet,"  she  said.  "Per- 
haps when  you've  heard  what  I've  got  to  tell 
you,  you'll  never  want  me  to  sit  down  in  your 
house  again  .  .  .  and  yet  ...  I  did  pray  so 
you'd  be  here  ...  I  knew  it  was  most  unlikely 
.  .  .  but  I  did  pray  so  ...  And  you  are  here." 

Anthony  was  puzzled.  Meg  was  not  given  to 
making  scenes  or  going  into  heroics. 

It  was  evident  that  something  had  happened 
to  shake  her  out  of  her  usual  almost  cynical 
calm. 

"You'd  be  much  better  to  sit  down,"  he  said, 
soothingly.  "You  see,  if  you  stand,  so  must  I, 
and  it's  such  an  uncomfortable  way  of  talking." 

She  pulled  out  a  chair  and  sat  down  at  the 
table,  took  off  her  gloves,  and  two  absurd  small 
thumbs  appeared  above  its  edge,  the  knuckles 
white  and  tense  with  the  strength  of  her  grip. 

Anthony  seated  himself  in  a  deep  chair  be- 
side the  fireplace.  He  was  in  shadow.  Meg 
faced  the  light,  and  he  was  shocked  at  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  little  smitten  face. 

"Now  tell  me,"  he  said  gently,  "just  as  little 
or  as  much  as  you  like." 

"This  morning,"  she  said  hoarsely,  "I  ran 
away  with  a  man  ...  in  a  motor-car." 

Anthony  was  certainly  startled,  but  all  he  said 
was,  "That  being  the  case,  why  are  you  here, 
my  dear,  and  what  have  you  done  with  him?" 

"He  was  married  .  .  ." 
114 


Meg 

"Have  you  only  just  found  that  out?" 

"No,  I  knew  it  all  along.  His  wife  is  hard 
and  disagreeable  and  older  than  he  is  ...  and 
he's  thirty-five  .  .  .  and  they  can't  live  together, 
and  she  won't  divorce  him  and  he  can't  divorce 
her  .  .  .  and  I  loved  him  so  much  and  thought 
how  beautiful  it  would  be  to  give  up  everything 
and  make  it  up  to  him." 

"Yes?"  said  Anthony,  for  Meg  paused  as 
though  unable  to  go  on. 

"And  it  seemed  very  wonderful  and  noble  to 
do  this,  and  I  forgot  my  poor  little  Papa  and 
those  boys  hi  India,  and  you  and  Jan  and  Fay 
and  ...  I  was  very  mad  and  very  happy  .  .  . 
till  this  morning,  when  we  actually  went  off  in 
his  car." 

"But  where,"  Anthony  asked  in  a  voice  stu- 
diously even  and  quiet,  "are  he  and  his  car?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Meg  said  hopelessly,  "unless 
they're  still  at  the  place  where  we  had  lunch  .  .  . 
and  I  don't  suppose  he'd  stay  there  all  this 
time  .  .  ." 

Anthony  felt  a  great  desire  to  laugh,  but  Meg 
looked  so  woebegone  and  desperately  serious 
that  he  restrained  the  impulse  and  said  very 
kindly:  "I  don't  yet  understand  how,  having 
embarked  upon  such  an  enterprise,  you  happen 
to  be  here  .  .  .  alone.  Did  you  quarrel  at  lunch, 
or  what?" 

"We  didn't  have  lunch,"  Meg  exclaimed  with 
a  sob.  "At  least,  I  didn't  ...  it  was  the  lunch 
that  did  it." 

"Did  what?" 

115 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"Made  me  realise  what  I  had  done,  and  go 
away." 

"Meg  dear,"  said  Anthony,  striving  desperately 
to  keep  his  voice  steady,  "was  it  a  very  bad 
lunch?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  with  the  utmost 
seriousness.  "We  hadn't  begun;  we  were  just 
going  to,  when  I  noticed  his  hands,  and  his  nails 
were  dirty,  and  they  looked  horrid,  and  suddenly 
it  came  over  me  that  if  I  stayed  .  .  .  those 
hands  ..." 

She  let  go  of  the  table,  put  her  elbows  upon  it 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Anthony  made  no  sound,  and  presently,  still 
with  hidden  face,  she  went  on  again: 

"And  in  that  minute  I  saw  what  I  was  doing, 
and  that  I  could  never  be  the  same  again,  and  I 
remembered  my  poor  little  dyspeptic  Papa,  and 
my  dear,  dear  brothers  so  far  away  in  India  .  .  . 
and  you  and  Jan  and  Fay — all  the  special  people 
I  pray  for  every  single  night  and  morning — and 
I  felt  that  if  I  didn't  get  away  that  minute  I 
should  die  .  .  ." 

"And  how  did  you  get  away?" 

"It  was  quite  simple.  There  was  something 
wrong  with  the  car  (that's  how  he  got  his  hands 
so  dirty),  and  he'd  sent  for  a  mechanic,  and  just 
as  we  were  sitting  down  to  lunch,  the  waiter  said 
the  motor-man  had  come  .  .  .  and  he  went  out 
to  the  garage  to  speak  to  him  .  .  ." 

"Yes?"  Anthony  remarked,  for  again  Meg 
paused. 

"So  I  just  walked  out  of  the  front  door.  No 
116 


Meg 

one  saw  me,  and  the  station  was  across  the  road, 
and  I  went  right  in  and  asked  when  there  was  a 
train  to  London,  and  there  was  one  going  in  five 
minutes;  so  I  took  a  ticket  and  came  straight 
here,  for  I  knew  somehow,  even  if  you  were  all 
away,  Hannah  would  let  me  stay  .  .  .  just  to- 
night. I  knew  she  would  ..."  and  Meg  began 
to  sob  feebly. 

And,  as  if  hi  response  to  the  mention  of  her 
name,  Hannah  appeared,  bearing  a  tray  with 
tea  upon  it.  Hannah  was  short  and  square;  she 
stumped  as  she  walked,  and  she  carried  a  tray 
very  high  and  stately,  as  though  it  were  a  sacrifice. 
As  she  came  in  Meg  rose  and  hastily  moved  to 
the  window,  standing  there  with  her  back  to  the 
room. 

"I  thocht,"  said  Hannah,  as  though  challeng- 
ing somebody  to  contradict  her,  "that  Miss 
Morton  would  be  the  better  for  an  egg  to  her 
tea.  She  looks  just  like  a  bit  soap  after  a  hard 
day's  washing." 

"I  had  no  lunch,"  said  a  muffled,  apologetic 
voice  from  the  window. 

"Come  away,  then,  and  take  yer  tea,"  Hannah 
said  sharply.  "Young  leddies  should  have  more 
sense  than  go  fasting  so  many  hours." 

As  it  was  evident  that  Hannah  had  no  inten- 
tion of  leaving  the  room  till  she  saw  Meg  sit- 
ting at  the  table,  the  girl  came  back  and  sat 
down. 

"See  that  she  gets  her  tea,  sir,"  she  said  in  a 
low,  admonitory  voice  to  Anthony.  "She's 
pretty  far  through." 

117 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

The  tray  was  set  at  the  end  of  the  table.  An- 
thony came  and  sat  down  behind  it. 

"I'll  pour  out,"  he  said,  "and  until  you've 
drunk  one  cup  of  tea,  eaten  one  piece  of  bread- 
and-butter  and  one  egg,  you're  not  to  speak  one 
word.  /  will  talk." 

He  tried  to,  disjointedly  and  for  the  most  part 
nonsense.  Meg  drank  her  tea,  and  to  her  own 
amazement  ate  up  her  egg  and  several  pieces  of 
bread-an-butter  with  the  utmost  relish. 

As  the  meal  proceeded,  Anthony  noted  that 
she  grew  less  haggard.  The  tears  still  hung  on 
her  eyelashes,  but  the  eyes  themselves  were  a 
thought  less  tragic. 

When  Hannah  came  for  the  tray  she  gave  a 
grunt  of  satisfaction  at  the  sight  of  the  egg-shell 
and  the  empty  plates. 

"Now,"  said  Anthony,  "we  must  thresh  this 
subject  out  and  settle  what's  to  be  done.  I  sup- 
pose you  left  a  message  for  the  Trents.  What 
did  you  tell  them?" 

"Lies,"  said  Meg.  "He  said  we  must  have  a 
good  start.  His  yacht  was  at  Southampton. 
And  I  left  a  note  that  I'd  been  suddenly  sum- 
moned to  Papa,  and  would  write  from  there. 
They'd  all  gone  for  a  picnic,  you  know — and  it 
was  arranged  I  was  to  have  a  headache  that 
morning  .  .  .  I've  got  it  now  with  a  vengeance 
...  It  seemed  rather  fun  when  we  were  plan- 
ning it.  Now  it  all  looks  so  mean  and  horrid  .  .  . 
Besides,  lots  of  people  saw  us  in  his  motor  .  .  . 
and  people  always  know  me  again  because  of 
my  hair.  Everyone  knew  him  .  .  .  the  whole 

118 


Meg 

county  made  a  fuss  of  him,  and  it  seemed  so 
wonderful  .  .  .  that  he  should  care  like  that  for 
me  .  .  ." 

"Doubtless  it  did,"  said  Anthony  drily.  "But 
we  must  consider  what  is  to  be  done  now.  If  you 
said  you  were  going  to  your  father,  perhaps  the 
best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  go  to  him,  and  write 
to  the  Trents  from  there.  I  hope  you  didn't  in- 
form him  of  your  intention?" 

"No,"  she  faltered.  "I  was  to  write  to  him 
just  before  we  sailed  .  .  .  But  you  may  be  per- 
fectly sure  the  Trents  will  find  out  .  .  .  He  will 
probably  go  back  there  to  look  for  me  ...  I 
expect  he  is  awfully  puzzled." 

"I  expect  he  is,  and  I  hope,"  Anthony  added 
vindictively,  "the  fellow  is  terrified  out  of  his 
life  as  well.  He  ought  to  be  horsewhipped,  and 
I'd  like  to  do  it.  A  babe  like  you !" 

"No,"  said  Meg,  firmly;  "there  you're  wrong. 
I'm  not  a  babe  ...  I  knew  what  I  was  doing; 
but  up  to  to-day  it  seemed  worth  it  ...  I  never 
seemed  to  see  till  to-day  how  it  would  hurt  other 
people.  Even  if  he  grew  tired  of  me — and  I  had 
faced  that — there  would  have  been  some  awfully 
happy  months  .  .  .  and  so  long  as  it  was  only 
me,  it  didn't  seem  to  matter.  And  when  you've 
had  rather  a  mouldy  life  .  .  ." 

"  It  can  never  be  a  case  of  '  only  me.'  As  society 
is  constituted,  other  people  are  always  involved." 

"Yet  there  was  Marian  Evans  ...  he  told 
me  about  her  .  .  .  she  did  it,  and  everyone  came 
round  to  think  it  was  very  fine  of  her  really.  She 
wrote,  or  something,  didn't  she?" 

119 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"She  did,"  said  Anthony,  "and  in  several  other 
respects  her  case  was  not  at  all  analogous  to 
yours.  She  was  a  middle-aged  woman — you  are 
a  child  .  .  ." 

"Perhaps,  but  I'm  not  an  ignorant  child  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Meg!"  Anthony  protested. 

"I  daresay  about  books  and  things  I  am,  but 
I  mean  I  haven't  been  wrapped  in  cotton-wool, 
and  taken  care  of  all  my  life,  like  Jan  and  Fay 
...  I  know  about  things.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear, 
will  you  forbid  Jan  ever  to  speak  to  me  again?" 

"Jan!"  Anthony  repeated.  "Jan!  Why, 
she's  the  person  of  all  others  we  want.  We'll 
do  nothing  till  she's  here.  Let's  get  her."  And 
he  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rushed  to  the  bell. 

Meg  rushed  after  him:  "You'll  let  her  see  me? 
You'll  let  her  talk  to  me?  Oh,  are  you  sure?" 

The  little  hands  clutched  his  arm,  her  ravaged, 
wistful  face  was  raised  imploringly  to  his. 

Anthony  stooped  and  kissed  the  little  face. 

"It's  just  people  like  Jan  who  are  put  into  the 
world  to  straighten  things  out  for  the  rest  of  us. 
We've  wasted  three-quarters  of  an  hour  already. 
Now  we'll  get  her." 

"Is  she  on  the  telephone?"  asked  the  prac- 
tical Meg.  "Not  far  off?" 

Jan  was  quite  used  to  being  summoned  to  her 
father  in  a  tremendous  hurry.  She  was  back  in 
St.  George's  Square  before  he  started  for  the 
dinner.  Meg  was  lying  down  in  one  of  the  dis- 
mantled bedrooms,  and  when  Jan  arrived  she 
went  straight  to  her  father  in  his  dressing-room. 

120 


Meg 

She  found  him  on  his  knees,  pursuing  a  refrac- 
tory collar-stud  under  the  wash-stand. 

"It's  well  you've  come,"  he  said  as  he  got  up. 
"I  can't  fasten  my  collar  or  my  tie.  I've  had  a 
devil  of  a  time.  My  fingers  are  all  thumbs  and 
I'm  most  detestably  sticky." 

He  told  Jan  about  Meg.  She  fastened  his 
collar  and  arranged  his  tie  in  the  neatest  of  bows. 
Then  she  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks  and  told 
him  not  to  worry. 

"How  can  one  refrain  from  worrying  when 
the  works  of  the  devil  and  the  selfishness  of  man 
are  made  manifest  as  they  have  been  to-day? 
But  for  the  infinite  mercy  of  God,  where  would 
that  poor  silly  child  have  been?" 

"It's  just  because  the  infinite  mercy  of  God 
is  so  much  stronger  than  the  works  of  the  devil 
or  the  selfishness  of  man,  that  you  needn't  worry," 
said  Jan. 

Anthony  put  his  hands  on  Jan's  shoulders  and 
held  her  away  from  him. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "I  shall  always  like 
Hannah  better  after  this.  In  spite  of  her 
moustache  and  her  grimness,  that  child  was 
sure  Hannah  would  take  her  in,  whether  any 
of  us  were  here  or  not.  Now,  how  did  she 
know?" 

"Because,"  said  Jan,  "things  are  revealed  to 
babes  like  Meg  that  are  hidden  from  men  of 
the  world  like  you.  Hannah  is  all  right — you 
don't  appreciate  Hannah,  and  you  are  rather 
jealous  of  her  moustache." 

Anthony  leant  forward  and  kissed  his  tall 
121 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

young   daughter:     "You    are   a   great   comfort, 
Jan,"  he  said.    "How  do  you  do  it?" 

Jan  nodded  at  him.  "It  will  all  straighten 
out — don't  you  worry,"  she  said. 

All  the  same,  there  was  plenty  of  worry  for 
everybody.  The  man,  after  his  fashion,  was 
very  much  in  love  with  Meg.  He  was  horribly 
alarmed  by  her  sudden  and  mysterious  disap- 
pearance. No  one  had  seen  her  go,  no  one  had 
noticed  her. 

He. got  into  a  panic,  and  motored  back  to  the 
Trents',  arriving  there  just  before  dinner.  Mrs. 
Trent,  tired  and  cross  after  a  wet  picnic,  had,  of 
course,  read  Meg's  note,  thought  it  very  casual 
of  the  girl  and  was  justly  incensed. 

On  finding  they  knew  no  more  of  Meg's  move- 
ments than  he  did  himself,  the  man — one  Walter 
Brooke — lost  his  head  and  confessed  the  truth 
to  Mrs.  Trent,  who  was  much  shocked  and  not 
a  little  frightened. 

Later  in  the  evening  she  received  a  telegram 
from  Jan  announcing  Meg's  whereabouts. 

Jan  had  insisted  on  this,  lest  the  Trents  should 
suspect  anything  and  wire  to  Major  Morton. 

Mrs.  Trent,  quite  naturally,  refused  to  have 
anything  further  to  do  with  Meg.  She  talked 
of  serpents,  and  was  very  much  upset.  She  wrote 
a  dignified  letter  to  Major  Morton,  explaining 
her  reasons  for  Meg's  dismissal.  She  also  wrote 
to  their  relative  among  the  weariful  rich,  through 
whom  she  had  heard  of  Meg. 

Meg  was  more  under  a  cloud  than  when  she 
left  Ribston  Hall. 

122 


Meg 

But  for  Jan  and  Anthony  she  might  have  gone 
under  altogether;  but  they  took  her  down  to 
Wren's  End  and  kept  guard  over  her.  Anthony 
Ross  dealt  faithfully  with  the  man,  who  went 
yachting  at  once. 

Meg  recovered  her  poise,  searched  the  ad- 
vertisements of  the  scholastic  papers  indus- 
triously, and  secured  a  post  in  a  school  for  little 
boys,  as  Anthony  forced  his  cousin  Amelia  to 
give  her  a  testimonial. 

Here  she  worked  hard  and  was  a  great  success, 
for  she  could  keep  order,  and  that  quality,  where 
small  boys  are  concerned,  is  much  more  valuable 
than  learning.  She  stayed  there  for  some  years, 
and  then  her  frail  little  ill-nourished  body  gave 
out,  and  she  was  gravely  ill. 

When  she  recovered,  she  went  as  English 
governess  to  a  rich  German  family  hi  Bremen. 
The  arrangement  was  only  for  one  year,  and  at 
its  termination  she  was  free  to  offer  to  meet  Jan 
and  her  charges. 


123 


CHAPTER  X 

PLANS 

chicks,  this  is  London,  the  friendly 
town,"  Jan  announced,  as  the  taxi  drove 
away  from  Charing  Cross  station. 

"Flendly  little  London,  dirty  little  London," 
her  niece  rejoined,  as  she  bounced  up  and  down 
on  Jan's  knee.  She  had  slept  during  the  very 
good  crossing  and  was  full  of  conversation  and 
ready  to  be  pleased  with  all  she  saw. 

Tony  was  very  quiet.  He  had  suffered  far 
more  in  the  swift  journey  across  France  than 
during  the  whole  of  the  voyage,  and  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  decide  whether  he  or  Ayah  were  the  more 
extraordinary  colour.  Greenish-white  and  mis- 
erable he  sat  beside  his  aunt,  silent  and  observing. 

"Here's  dear  old  Piccadilly,"  Jan  exclaimed, 
as  the  taxi  turned  out  of  St.  James's  Street. 
"Doesn't  it  look  jolly  in  the  sunshine?" 

Tony  turned  even  greener  than  before,  and 
gasped: 

"This!    Piccadilly!" 

This  not  very  wide  street  with  shops  and  great 
houses  towering  above  them,  the  endless  streams 
of  traffic  in  the  road  and  on  the  crowded  pave- 
ments ! 

"Did  Mrs.  Bond  live  in  one  of  those  houses?" 
he  wondered,  "and  if  so,  where  did  she  keep  her 

124 


Plans 

ducks?  And  where,  oh,  where,  were  the  tulips 
and  the  lilies  of  his  dream?" 

He  uttered  no  sound,  but  his  mind  kept  ex- 
claiming, "This!  Piccadilly?" 

"See,"  said  Jan,  oblivious  of  Tony  and  intent 
on  keeping  her  lively  niece  upon  her  knee. 
"There's  the  Green  Park." 

Tony  breathed  more  freely. 

After  all,  there  were  trees  and  grass;  good  grass, 
and  more  of  it  than  hi  the  Resident's  garden. 
He  took  heart  a  little  and  summoned  up  courage 
to  inquire:  "But  where  are  the  tulips?" 

"It's  too  early  for  tulips  yet,"  Jan  answered. 
"By  and  by  there  will  be  quantities.  How  did 
you  know  about  them?  Did  dear  Mummy  tell 
you?  But  they're  in  Hyde  Park,  not  here." 

Tony  made  no  answer.  He  was,  as  usual, 
weighing  and  considering  and  making  up  his  mind. 

Presently  he  spoke.  "It's  different,"  he  said, 
slowly,  "but  I  rather  like  to  look  at  it." 

Tony  never  said  whether  he  thought  things 
were  pretty  or  ugly.  All  he  knew  was  that  cer- 
tain people  and  places,  pictures  and  words,  some- 
tunes  filled  him  with  an  exquisite  sense  of  plea- 
sure, while  others  merely  bored  or  exasperated  or 
were  positively  painful. 

His  highest  praise  was  "I  like  to  look  at  it." 
When  he  didn't  like  to  look  at  it,  he  had  found  it 
wiser  to  express  no  opinion  at  all,  except  hi  mo- 
ments of  confidential  expansion,  and  these  were 
rare  with  Tony. 

Meg  had  found  them  a  nice  little  furnished  flat 
on  the  fifth  floor  in  one  of  the  blocks  behind  Ken- 

125 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

sington  High  Street,  and  Hannah  must  surely 
have  been  waiting  behind  the  door,  so  instanta- 
neously was  it  opened,  when  Jan  and  her  party 
left  the  lift. 

There  were  tears  in  Hannah's  eyes  and  her 
nose  was  red  as  she  welcomed  "Miss  Fay's  moth- 
erless bairns."  She  was  rather  shocked  that 
there  was  no  sign  of  mourning  about  any  of  them 
except  Jan,  who  wore — mainly  as  a  concession  to 
Hannah's  prejudices — a  thin  black  coat  and 
skirt  she  had  got  just  before  she  left  Bombay. 

Tony  stared  stonily  at  Hannah  and  decided  he 
did  not  like  to  look  at  her.  She  was  as  surprising 
as  the  newly-found  Piccadilly,  but  she  gratified 
no  sensuous  perception  whatsoever. 

Ayah  might  not  be  exactly  beautiful,  but  she 
was  harmonious.  Her  body  was  well  propor- 
tioned, her  sari  fell  in  gracious  flowing  lines,  and 
she  moved  with  dignity.  Without  knowing  why, 
Tony  felt  that  there  was  something  pleasing  to 
the  eye  in  Ayah.  Hannah,  on  the  contrary,  was 
the  reverse  of  graceful;  stumpy  and  heavy-footed, 
she  gave  an  impression  of  abrupt  terminations. 
Everything  about  her  seemed  too  short  except 
her  caps,  which  were  unusually  tall  and  white 
and  starchy.  Her  afternoon  aprons,  too,  were 
stiffer  and  whiter  and  more  voluminous  than 
those  of  other  folk.  She  did  not  regard  these 
things  as  vain  adornings  of  her  person,  rather 
were  they  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  her 
office  as  housekeeper  to  Miss  Ross.  They  were  a 
partial  expression  of  the  dignity  of  that  office, 
just  as  a  minister's  gown  is  the  badge  of  his. 

126 


Plans 

By  the  time  everyone  was  washed  and  brushed 
Meg  returned  with  the  luggage  and  Hannah 
brought  hi  tea. 

"I  thought  you'd  like  to  give  the  bairns  their 
tea  yourself  the  first  day,  Miss  Jan.  Will  that 
Hindu  body  have  hers  in  the  nursery?" 

"That  would  be  best,"  Jan  said  hastily.  "And 
Hannah,  you  mustn't  be  surprised  if  she  sits  on 
the  floor.  Indian  servants  always  do." 

"Nothing  she  can  do  will  surprise  me,"  Hannah 
announced  loftily.  "I've  not  forgotten  the  body 
that  came  back  with  Mrs.  Tancred,  with  a  ring 
through  her  nose  and  a  red  wafer  on  her  fore- 
head." 

Jan,  herself,  went  with  Ayah  to  the  nursery, 
where  she  found  that  in  spite  of  her  disparaging 
sniffs,  Hannah  had  put  out  everything  poor  Ayah 
could  possibly  want. 

The  children  were  hungry  and  tea  was  a  lengthy 
meal.  It  was  not  until  they  had  departed  with 
Ayah  for  more  washings  that  Jan  found  tune  to 
say:  "Why  don't  you  take  off  your  hat,  Meg 
dear?  I  can't  see  you  properly  in  that  extin- 
guisher. Is  it  the  latest  fashion?" 

"The  very  latest." 

Meg  looked  queerly  at  Jan  as  she  slowly  took 
off  her  hat. 

"There!"  she  said. 

Her  hair  was  cropped  as  short  as  a  boy's,  ex- 
cept for  the  soft,  tawny  rings  that  framed  her 
face. 

"Meg!"  Jan  cried.  "Why  on  earth  have  you 
cut  off  your  hair?" 

127 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"Chill  penury's  the  cause.  I've  turned  it  into 
good  hard  cash.  It  happens  to  be  the  fashion- 
able colour  just  now." 

"Did  you  really  need  to?  I  thought  you  were 
getting  quite  a  good  salary  with  those  Hoffmeyers." 

"No  English  governess  gets  a  good  salary  in 
Bremen,  and  mine  was  but  a  modest  remunera- 
tion, so  I  wanted  more.  Do  you  remember  Lady 
Penelope  Pottinger?" 

"Hazily.  She  was  pretty,  wasn't  she  .  .  . 
and  very  smart?" 

"She  was  and  is  ...  smarter  than  ever  now 
— mind,  I  put  you  on  your  honour  never  to  men- 
tion it — she's  got  my  hair." 

"Do  you  mean  she  asked  you  to  sell  it?" 

"No,  my  child.  I  offered  it  for  sale  and  she 
was  all  over  me  with  eagerness  to  purchase. 
Hair's  the  defective  wire  in  her  lighting  appar- 
atus. Her  own,  at  the  best,  is  skimpy  and 
straight,  though  very  much  my  colour,  and  what 
with  permanent  waving  and  instantaneous  hair 
colouring  it  was  positively  dwindling  away." 

"I  wish  you  had  let  it  dwindle." 

"No,  I  rather  like  her — so  I  suggested  she 
should  give  her  own  poor  locks  a  rest  and  have 
an  artistic  postiche  made  with  mine;  it  made  two, 
one  to  come  and  one  to  go — to  the  hairdresser. 
She  looks  perfectly  charming.  I'd  no  idea  my 
hair  was  so  decent  till  I  saw  it  on  her  head." 

"I  hope  7  never  shall,"  Jan  said  gloomily.  "I 
think  it  was  silly  of  you,  for  it  makes  you  look 
younger  and  more  irresponsible  than  ever;  and 
what  about  posts?" 

128 


Plans 

"I've  got  a  post  in  view  where  it  won't  matter 
if  only  I  can  run  things  my  own  way." 

"Will  you  have  to  go  at  once?  I  thought, 
perhaps " 

"I  wish  to  take  this  post  at  once,"  Meg  inter- 
posed quickly,  "but  it  depends  on  you  whether  I 
get  it." 

"On  me?" 

"On  no  one  else.  Look  here,  Jan,  will  you 
take  me  on  as  nurse  to  Fay's  children?  A  real 
nurse,  mind,  none  of  your  fine  lady  arrangements; 
only  you  must  pay  me  forty  pounds  a  year.  I 
can't  manage  with  less  if  I'm  to  give  my  poor 
little  Papa  any  chirps  ...  I  suppose  that's  a 
frightful  lot  for  a  nurse?" 

"Not  for  a  good  nurse  .  .  .  But,  Meg,  you 
got  eighty  when  you  taught  the  little  boys,  and 
I  know  they'd  jump  at  you  again  in  that  school, 
hah*  or  no  hah-." 

"Listen,  Jan."  Meg  put  her  elbows  on  the 
table  and  leaned  her  sharp  little  chin  on  her  two 
hands  while  she  held  Jan's  eyes  with  hers.  "For 
nine  long  years,  except  that  tune  with  the  Trents, 
I've  been  teaching,  teaching,  teaching,  and  I'm 
sick  of  teaching.  I'd  rather  sweep  a  crossing." 

"Yet  you  teach  so  well;  you  know  the  little 
boys  adored  you." 

"I  love  children  and  they  usually  like  me.  If 
you  take  me  to  look  after  Tony  and  little  Fay,  I'll 
do  it  thoroughly,  I  can  promise  you.  I  won't 
teach  them,  mind,  not  a  thing — I'll  make  them 
happy  and  well-mannered;  and,  Jan,  listen,  do 
you  suppose  there's  anybody,  even  the  most 

129 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

superior  of  elderly  nurses,  who  would  take  the 
trouble  for  Fay's  children  that  I  should?  If  you 
let  me  come  you  won't  regret  it,  I  promise  you." 

Meg's  eyes,  those  curious  eyes  with  the  large 
pupil  and  blue  iris  flecked  with  brown,  were  very 
bright,  her  voice  was  earnest,  and  when  it  ceased 
it  left  a  sense  of  tension  in  the  very  air. 

Jan  put  out  her  hand  across  the  table,  and 
Meg,  releasing  her  sharp  little  chin,  clasped  it 
with  hers. 

11  So  that's  settled,"  Meg  announced  trium- 
phantly. 

"No."  Jan's  voice  was  husky  but  firm.  "It's 
not  settled.  I  don't  think  you're  strong  enough; 
but,  even  so,  if  I  could  pay  you  the  salary  you 
ought  to  have,  I'd  jump  at  you  .  .  .  but,  my 
dear,  I  can't  at  present.  I  haven't  the  least  idea 
what  it  will  all  cost,  but  the  fares  and  things 
have  made  such  a  hole  in  this  year's  money  I'll 
need  to  be  awfully  careful." 

"That's  exactly  why  I  want  to  come;  you've 
no  idea  of  being  careful  and  doing  things  in  a 
small  way.  I've  done  it  all  my  life.  You'll  be 
far  more  economical  with  me  than  without  me." 

"Don't  tempt  me,"  Jan  besought  her.  "I  see 
all  that,  but  why  should  I  be  comfortable  at  your 
expense?  I  want  you  more  than  I  can  say. 
Fay  wanted  it  too — she  said  so." 

' '  Did  Fay  actually  say  so  ?    Did  she  ?  " 

"Yes,  she  did — not  that  you  should  be  their 
nurse,  we  neither  of  us  ever  thought  of  that;  but 
she  did  want  you  to  be  there  to  help  me  with  the 
children.  We  used  to  talk  about  it." 

130 


Plans 

"Then  I'm  coming.  I  must.  Don't  you  see 
how  it  is,  Jan?  Don't  you  realise  that  nearly  all 
the  happiness  in  my  life — all  the  happiness  since 
the  boys  left — has  come  to  me  through  Mr.  Ross 
and  Fay  and  you?  And  now  when  there's  a 
chance  for  me  to  do  perhaps  a  little  something 
in  return  ...  If  you  don't  let  me,  it's  you  who 
are  mean  and  grudging.  I  shall  be  perfectly 
strong,  if  I  haven't  got  to  teach — mind,  I  won't 
do  that,  not  so  much  as  A.B.C." 

"I  know  it's  wrong,"  Jan  sighed,  "just  because 
it  would  be  so  heavenly  to  have  you." 

Meg  loosed  the  hand  she  held  and  stood  up. 
She  lifted  her  thin  arms  above  her  head,  as 
though  invoking  some  invisible  power,  stretched 
herself,  and  ran  round  the  table  to  kiss  Jan. 

"And  do  you  never  think,  you  dear,  slow- 
witted  thing,  that  it  will  be  rather  lovely  for  me 
to  be  with  you?  To  be  with  somebody  who  is 
kind  without  being  patronising,  who  treats  one 
as  a  human  being  and  not  a  machine,  who  sees 
the  funny  side  of  things  and  isn't  condescending 
or  improving  if  she  doesn't  happen  to  be  cross?" 

"I'm  often  cross,"  Jan  said. 

"Well,  and  what  if  you  are?  Can't  I  be  cross 
back?  I'm  not  afraid  of  your  crossness.  You 
never  hit  below  the  belt.  Now,  promise  me 
you'll  give  me  a  trial.  Promise!" 

Meg's  arms  were  round  her  neck,  Meg's  absurd 
cropped  head  was  rubbing  against  hers.  Jan  was 
very  lonely  and  hungry  for  affection  just  then, 
timid  and  anxious  about  the  future.  Even  in 
that  moment  of  time  it  flashed  upon  her  what  a 

131 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

tower  of  strength  this  small,  determined  creature 
would  be,  and  how  infinitely  hard  it  was  to  turn 
Meg  from  any  course  she  had  determined  on. 

"For  a  little  while,  then,"  so  Jan  salved  her 
conscience.  "Just  till  we  all  shake  down  .  .  . 
and  your  hair  begins  to  grow." 

Meg  stood  up  very  straight  and  shook  her 
finger  at  Jan.  "Remember,  I'm  to  be  a  real, 
proper  nurse  with  authority,  and  a  clinical  ther- 
mometer .  .  .  and  a  uniform." 

"If  you  like,  and  it's  a  pretty  uniform." 

Meg  danced  gleefully  round  the  table. 

"It  will  be  lovely,  it  is  lovely.  I've  got  it  all 
ready;  green  linen  frocks,  big  well-fitting  aprons, 
and  such  beautiful  caps." 

"Not  caps,  Meg!"  Jan  expostulated.  "Please 
not  caps." 

"Certainly  caps.  How  otherwise  am  I  to 
cover  up  my  head?  I  can't  wear  hats  all  the 
time.  And  how  could  I  ever  inspire  those  chil- 
dren with  respect  with  a  head  like  this?  When 
I  get  into  my  uniform  you'll  see  what  a  very 
superior  nurse  I  look." 

"You'll  look  much  more  like  musical  comedy 
than  sober  service." 

"You  mistake  the  situation  altogether,"  Meg 
said  loftily.  "I  take  my  position  very  seriously." 

"But  you  can't  go  about  Wren's  End  in  caps. 
Everybody  knows  you  down  there." 

"They'll  find  out  they  don't  know  me  as  well 
as  they  thought,  that's  all." 

"Meg,  tell  me,  what  did  Hannah  say  when  she 
saw  your  poor  shorn  head?" 

132 


Plans 

"  Hannah,  as  usual,  referred  to  my  Maker,  and 
said  that  had  He  intended  me  to  have  short  hair 
He  would  either  have  caused  it  not  to  grow  or 
afflicted  me  with  some  disease  which  necessitated 
shearing;  and  she  added  that  such  havers  are  just 
flying  in  the  face  of  Providence." 

"So  they  are." 

"All  the  more  reason  to  cover  them  up,  and  I 
wish  to  impress  the  children." 

"Those  children  will  be  sadly  browbeaten,  I 
can  see,  and  as  for  their  poor  aunt,  she  won't  be 
able  to  call  her  soul  her  own." 

"That,"  Meg  said,  triumphantly,  "is  precisely 
why  I'm  so  eager  to  come.  When  you've  been 
an  underling  all  your  life  you  can't  imagine  what 
a  joy  it  is  to  be  top  dog  occasionally." 

"In  that  respect,"  Jan  said  firmly,  "it  must 
be  turn  and  turn  about.  I  won't  let  you  come 
unless  you  promise — swear,  here  and  now— that 
when  I  consider  you  are  looking  fagged — 'a 
wispy  wraith,'  as  Daddie  used  to  say — if  I  com- 
mand you  to  take  a  day  in  bed,  in  bed  you  will 
stay  till  I  give  you  leave  to  get  up.  Unless  you 
promise  me  this,  the  contract  is  off." 

"I'll  promise  anything  you  like.  The  idea  of 
being  pressed  to  remain  in  bed  strikes  me  as 
merely  comic.  You  have  evidently  no  notion 
how  persons  in  a  subordinate  position  ought  to 
be  treated.  Bed,  indeed!" 

"I  think  you  might  have  waited  till  I  got  back 
before  you  parted  with  your  hair."  Jan's  tone 
was  decidedly  huffy. 

"Now  don't  nag.  That  subject  is  closed. 
133 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

What  about  your  hair.  Do  you  know  it  is  almost 
white?" 

"And  what  more  suitable  for  a  maiden  aunt? 
As  that  is  to  be  my  role  for  the  future  I  may  as 
well  look  the  part." 

"But  you  don't — that's  what  I  complain  of. 
The  whiter  your  hair  grows  the  younger  your 
face  gets.  You're  a  contradiction,  a  paradox, 
you  provoke  conjecture,  you're  indecently  no- 
ticeable. Mr.  Ross  would  have  loved  to  paint 
you." 

Jan  shook  her  head.  "No,  Daddie  never 
wanted  to  paint  anything  about  me  except  my 
arms." 

"He'd  want  to  paint  you  now,"  Meg  insisted 
obstinately.  "/  know  the  sort  of  person  he  liked 
to  paint." 

"He  never  would  paint  people  unless  he  did 
like  them,"  Jan  said,  smiling  as  at  some  recollec- 
tion. "Do  you  remember  how  he  utterly  refused 
to  paint  that  rich  Mr.  Withells  down  at  Amber 
Guiting?" 

"I  remember,"  and  Meg  laughed.  "He  said 
Mr.  Withells  was  puffy  and  stippled." 

Tony  had  been  cold  ever  since  he  reached  the 
Gulf  of  Lyons,  and  he  wondered  what  could  be 
the  matter  with  him,  for  he  never  remembered 
to  have  felt  like  this  before.  He  wondered  mis- 
erably what  could  be  the  reason  why  he  felt  so 
torpid  and  shivery,  disinclined  to  move,  and  yet 
so  uncomfortable  when  he  sat  still. 

After  his  bath,  on  that  first  night  in  London, 
134 


Plans 

tucked  into  a  little  bed  with  a  nice  warm  eider- 
down over  him,  he  still  felt  that  horrid  little 
trickle  of  ice-cold  water  down  his  spine  and  could 
not  sleep. 

His  cot  was  in  Auntie  Jan's  room  with  a  tall 
screen  round  it.  The  rooms  in  the  flat  were 
small,  tiny  they  seemed  to  Tony,  after  the  lofty 
spaciousness  of  the  bungalow  hi  Bombay,  but 
that  didn't  seem  to  make  it  any  warmer,  because 
Auntie  Jan's  window  was  wide  open  as  it  would 
go — top  and  bottom — and  chilly  gusts  seemed  to 
blow  round  his  head  in  spite  of  the  screen.  Ayah 
and  little  Fay  were  in  the  nursery  across  the  pas- 
sage, where  there  was  a  fire.  There  was  no  fire 
in  this  wind-swept  chamber  of  Auntie  Jan's. 

Tony  dozed  and  woke  and  woke  and  dozed, 
getting  colder  and  more  forlorn  and  miserable 
with  each  change  of  position.  The  sheets  seemed 
made  of  ice,  so  slippery  were  they,  so  unkind  and 
unyielding  and  unembracing. 

Presently  he  saw  a  dim  light.  Auntie  Jan  had 
come  to  bed,  carrying  a  candle.  He  heard  her 
say  good  night  to  the  little  mem  who  had  met 
them  at  the  station,  and  the  door  was  shut. 

In  spite  of  her  passion  for  fresh  air,  Jan  shiv- 
ered herself  as  she  undressed.  She  made  a  some- 
what hasty  toilet,  said  her  prayers,  peeped  round 
the  screen  to  see  that  Tony  was  all  right,  and 
hopped  into  bed,  where  a  hot-water  bottle  put  hi 
by  the  thoughtful  Hannah  was  most  comforting. 

Presently  she  heard  a  faint,  attenuated  sniff. 
Again  it  came,  this  tune  accompanied  by  the 
ghost  of  something  like  a  groan. 

135 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Jan  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened.  Immediately 
all  was  perfectly  still. 

She  lay  down  again,  and  again  came  that  sad 
little  sniff,  and  undoubtedly  it  was  from  behind 
the  screen  that  it  came. 

Had  Tony  got  cold? 

Jan  leapt  out  of  bed,  switched  on  the  light  and 
tore  away  the  screen  from  around  his  bed. 

Yes;  his  doleful  little  face  was  tear-stained. 

"Tony,  Tony  darling,  what  is  the  matter?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  sobbed.     "I  feel  so  funny." 

Jan  put  her  hand  on  his  forehead — far  from 
being  hot,  the  little  face  was  stone-cold.  In  a 
moment  she  had  him  out  of  bed  and  in  her  warm 
arms.  As  she  took  him  she  felt  the  chill  of  the 
stiff,  unyielding  small  body. 

"My  precious  boy,  you're  cold  as  charity! 
Why  didn't  you  call  me  long  ago?  Why  didn't 
you  tell  Auntie  Jan?" 

"I  didn't  .  .  .  know  .  .  .  what  it  was,"  he 
sobbed. 

In  no  time  Tony  was  put  into  the  big  bed,  the 
bed  so  warm  from  Auntie  Jan's  body,  with  a 
lovely  podgy  magic  something  at  his  feet  that 
radiated  heat.  Auntie  Jan  slammed  down  the 
window  at  the  bottom,  and  then  more  fairness! 
She  struck  a  match,  there  was  a  curious  sort  of 
"plop,"  and  a  little  fire  started  in  the  grate,  an 
amazing  little  fire  that  grew  redder  and  redder 
every  minute.  Auntie  Jan  put  on  a  blue  dressing- 
gown  over  the  long  white  garment  that  she  wore, 
and  bustled  about.  Tony  decided  that  he  "liked 
to  look  at  her"  in  this  blue  robe,  with  her  hair 

136 


Plans 

in  a  great  rope  hanging  down.  She  was  very 
quick;  she  fetched  a  little  saucepan  and  he  heard 
talking  in  the  passage  outside,  but  no  one  else 
came  in,  only  Auntie  Jan. 

Presently  she  gave  him  milk,  warm  and  sweet, 
in  a  blue  cup.  He  drank  it  and  began  to  feel 
much  happier,  drowsy  too,  and  contented.  Pres- 
ently there  was  no  light  save  the  red  glow  of  the 
fairy  fire,  and  Auntie  Jan  got  into  bed  beside 
him. 

She  put  her  arm  about  him  and  drew  him  so 
that  his  head  rested  against  her  warm  shoulder. 
He  did  not  repulse  her,  he  did  not  speak,  but 
lay  stiff  and  straight  with  his  feet  glued  against 
that  genial  podgy  something  that  was  so  infinitely 
comforting. 

"You  are  kind,"  Tony  said  suddenly.  "I 
believe  you." 

The  stiff  little  body  relaxed  and  lay  against 
hers  in  confiding  abandonment,  and  soon  he 
was  sound  asleep. 

What  a  curious  thing  to  say!  Jan  lay  awake 
puzzling.  Tragedy  lay  behind  it.  Only  five 
years  old,  and  yet,  to  Tony,  belief  was  a  more 
important  thing  than  love.  She  thought  of 
Fay,  hectic  and  haggard,  and  again  she  seemed 
to  hear  her  say  in  her  tired  voice,  trying  to  ex- 
plain Tony:  "He's  not  a  cuddly  child;  he's  queer 
and  reserved  and  silent,  but  if  he  once  trusts  you 
it's  for  always;  he'll  love  you  then  and  never 
change." 

Jan  could  just  see,  in  the  red  glow  from  the 
fire,  the  little  head  that  lay  so  confidingly  against 

137 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

her  shoulder,  the  wide  forehead,  the  peacefully 
closed  eyes.  And  suddenly  she  realised  that  the 
elusive  resemblance  to  somebody  that  had  al- 
ways evaded  her  was  a  likeness  to  that  face  she 
saw  in  the  glass  every  time  she  did  her  hair.  She 
kissed  him  very  softly,  praying  the  while  that 
she  might  never  fail  him;  that  he  might  always 
have  reason  to  trust  her. 


138 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   STATE   OF   PETER 

MEANWHILE  Peter  was  making  discoveries 
about  himself.  He  went  back  to  his  flat 
on  the  evening  of  the  day  Jan  and  the  children 
sailed.  Swept  and  garnished  and  exceedingly 
tidy,  it  appeared  to  have  grown  larger  during 
his  absence  and  seemed  rather  empty.  There 
was  a  sense  of  unfilled  spaces  that  .caused  him 
to  feel  lonely. 

That  very  evening  he  decided  he  must  get  a 
friend  to  chum  with  him.  The  bungalow  was 
much  too  big  for  one  person. 

This  had  never  struck  him  before. 

In  spite  of  their  excessive  neatness  there  re- 
mained traces  of  Jan  and  the  children  in  the 
rooms.  The  flowers  on  the  dinner-table  pro- 
claimed that  they  had  been  arranged  by  another 
hand  than  Lalkhan's.  He  was  certain  of  that 
without  Lalkhan's  assurance  that  the  Miss- 
Sahib  had  done  them  herself  before  she  sailed 
that  very  morning. 

When  he  went  to  his  desk  after  dinner — never 
before  or  after  did  Peter  possess  such  an  orderly 
bureau — he  found  a  letter  lying  on  the  blotting- 
pad,  and  on  each  side  of  the  heavy  brass  ink- 
stand were  placed  a  leaden  member  of  a  camel- 
corps  and  an  India-rubber  ball  with  a  face  painted 

139 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

upon  it,  which,  when  squeezed,  expressed  every 
variety  of  emotion.  These,  Lalkhan  explained, 
were  parting  gifts  from  the  young  sahib  and 
little  Fay  respectively,  and  had  been  so  arranged 
by  them  just  before  they  sailed. 

The  day  before  Jan  had  told  the  children  that 
all  this  tune  they  had  been  living  in  Peter's  house 
and  that  she  was  sure  Mummy  would  want  them 
to  be  very  grateful  (she  was  careful  to  talk  a 
great  deal  about  Mummy  to  the  children  lest 
they  should  forget  her);  that  he  had  been  very 
kind  to  them  all,  and  she  asked  if  there  was  any- 
thing of  their  very  own  they  would  like  to  leave 
for  Peter  as  a  remembrance. 

Tony  instantly  fetched  the  camel-corps  soldier 
that  kept  guard  on  a  chair  by  his  cot  every  night; 
that  Ayah  had  not  been  permitted  to  pack  be- 
cause it  must  accompany  him  on  the  voyage.  It 
was,  Jan  knew,  his  most  precious  possession,  and 
she  assured  him  that  Peter  would  be  particularly 
gratified  by  such  a  gift. 

Not  to  be  outdone  by  her  brother,  little  Fay 
demanded  her  beloved  ball,  which  was  already 
packed  for  the  voyage  in  Jan's  suit-case. 

Peter  sat  at  his  desk  staring  at  the  absurd 
little  toys  with  very  kind  eyes.  He  understood. 
Then  he  opened  Jan's  letter  and  read  it  through 
quite  a  number  of  tunes. 

"Dear  Mr.  Ledgard,"  it  ran. 

"Whatever  Mr.  Kipling  may  say  of  the  Celt, 
the  lowland  Scot  finds  it  very  difficult  to  express 
strong  feeling  in  words.  If  I  had  tried  to  tell 
you,  face  to  face,  how  sensible  I  am  of  your  kind- 

140 


The  State  of  Peter 

ness  and  consideration  for  us  during  the  last  sad 
weeks — I  should  have  cried.  You  would  have 
been  desperately  uncomfortable  and  I — miserably 
ashamed  of  myself.  So  I  can  only  try  to  write 
something  of  my  gratitude. 

"We  have  been  your  guests  so  long  and  your 
hospitality  has  been  so  untiring  in  circumstances 
sad  and  strange  enough  to  try  the  patience  of  the 
kindest  host,  that  I  simply  cannot  express  my 
sense  of  obligation;  an  obligation  in  no  wise  bur- 
densome because  you  have  always  contrived  to 
make  me  feel  that  you  took  pleasure  in  doing  all 
you  have  done. 

"I  wish  there  had  been  something  belonging  to 
my  sister  that  I  could  have  begged  you  to  accept 
as  a  remembrance  of  her;  but  everything  she  had 
of  the  smallest  value  has  disappeared — even  her 
books.  When  I  get  home  I  hope  to  give  you  one 
of  my  father's  many  portraits  of  her,  but  I  will 
not  send  it  till  I  know  whether  you  are  coming 
home  this  summer.  Please  remember,  should 
you  do  so,  as  I  sincerely  hope  you  will,  that  no- 
where can  there  be  a  warmer  welcome  for  you 
than  at  Wren's  End.  It  would  be  the  greatest 
possible  pleasure  for  the  children  and  me  to  see 
you  there,  and  it  is  a  good  place  to  slack  in  and 
get  strong.  And  there  I  hope  to  challenge  you  to 
the  round  of  golf  we  never  managed  during  my 
time  in  India. 

"Please  try  to  realise,  dear  Mr.  Ledgard,  that 
my  sense  of  your  kindness  is  deep  and  abiding, 
and,  believe  me,  yours,  in  most  true  gratitude, 

"JANET  Ross." 
141 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

For  a  long  time  Peter  sat  very  still,  staring  at 
the  cheerful,  highly-coloured  face  painted  on  Fay's 
ball.  Cigarette  after  cigarette  did  he  smoke  as  he 
reviewed  the  experience  of  the  last  six  weeks. 

For  the  first  time  since  he  became  a  man  he 
had  been  constantly  in  the  society  of  a  woman 
younger  than  himself  who  appeared  too  busy  and 
too  absorbed  in  other  things  to  remember  that 
she  was  a  woman  and  he  a  man. 

Peter  was  ordinarily  susceptible,  and  he  was 
rather  a  favourite  with  women  because  of  his 
good  manners;  and  his  real  good-nature  made 
him  ready  to  help  either  in  any  social  project  that 
happened  to  be  towards  or  in  tunes  of  domestic 
stress.  Yet  never  until  lately  had  he  seen  so 
much  of  any  woman  not  frankly  middle-aged 
without  being  conscious  that  he  was  a  man  and 
she  a  woman,  and  this  added,  at  all  events,  a 
certain  piquancy  to  the  situation. 

Yet  he  had  never  felt  this  with  Jan. 

Quite  a  number  of  times  in  the  course  of  his 
thirty  years  he  had  fallen  in  love  in  an  agreeably 
surface  sort  of  way  without  ever  being  deeply 
stirred.  Love-making  was  the  pleasantest  game 
in  the  world,  but  he  had  not  yet  felt  the  smallest 
desire  to  marry.  He  was  a  shrewd  young  man, 
and  knew  that  marriage,  even  in  the  twentieth 
century,  at  all  events  starts  with  the  idea  of  per- 
manence; and,  like  many  others  who  show  no 
inclination  to  judge  the  matrimonial  complica- 
tions of  their  acquaintance,  he  would  greatly 
have  disliked  any  sort  of  scandal  that  involved 
himself  or  his  belongings. 

142 


The  State  of  Peter 

He  was  quite  as  sensitive  to  criticism  as  other 
men  in  his  service,  and  he  knew  that  he  challenged 
it  in  lending  his  flat  to  Mrs.  Tancred.  But  here 
he  felt  that  the  necessities  of  the  case  far  out- 
weighed the  possibilities  of  misconception,  and 
after  Jan  came  he  thought  no  more  about  it. 

Yet  in  a  young  man  with  his  somewhat  cynical 
knowledge  of  the  world,  it  was  surprising  that 
the  thought  of  his  name  being  coupled  with  Jan's 
never  crossed  his  mind.  He  forgot  that  none  of 
his  friends  knew  Jan  at  all,  but  that  almost  every 
evening  they  did  see  her  with  him  in  the  car — 
sometimes,  it  is  true,  accompanied  by  the  chil- 
dren, but  quite  as  often  alone — and  that  during 
her  visit  his  spare  time  was  so  much  occupied  in 
looking  after  the  Tancred  household  that  his 
friends  saw  comparatively  little  of  him,  and 
Peter  was,  as  a  rule,  a  very  sociable  person. 

Therefore  it  came  upon  him  as  a  real  shock 
when  people  began  to  ask  him  point-blank 
whether  he  was  engaged  to  Jan,  and  if  so,  what 
they  were  going  to  do  about  Tancred's  children. 
Rightly  or  wrongly,  he  discerned  hi  the  question 
some  veiled  reflection  upon  Jan,  some  implied 
slur  upon  her  conduct.  He  was  consequently 
very  short  and  huffy  with  these  inquisitive  ones, 
and  when  he  was  no  longer  present  they  would 
shake  then*  heads  and  declare  that  "poor  old 
Peter  had  got  it  in  the  neck." 

If  so,  poor  old  Peter  was,  as  yet,  quite  uncon- 
scious of  anything  of  the  kind. 

Nevertheless  he  found  himself  constantly  think- 
ing about  her.  Everything,  even  the  familiar 

143 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

streets  and  roads,  served  to  remind  him  of  her, 
and  when  he  went  to  bed  he  nearly  always 
dreamed  about  her.  Absurd,  inconsequent,  un- 
satisfactory dreams  they  were;  for  in  them  she 
was  always  too  busy  to  pay  any  attention  to  him 
at  all;  she  was  wholly  absorbed  by  what  it  is  to 
be  feared  Peter  sometimes  called  "  those  con- 
founded children."  Though  even  in  his  dream 
world  he  was  careful  to  keep  his  opinion  to  him- 
self. 

Why  on  earth  should  he  always  dream  of  Jan 
during  the  first  part  of  the  night? 

Lalkhan  could  have  thrown  some  light  upon 
the  subject.  But  naturally  Peter  did  not  confide 
his  obsession  to  Lalkhan. 

Just  before  she  left  Jan  asked  Lalkhan  where 
the  sahib's  linen  was  kept,  and  on  being  shown 
the  cupboard  which  contained  the  rather  untidy 
little  piles  of  sheets,  pillow-cases,  and  towels  that 
formed  Peter's  modest  store  of  house  linen,  she  re- 
arranged it  and  brought  sundry  flat,  square  muslin 
bags  filled  with  dried  lavender.  Lace-edged  bags 
with  lavender-coloured  ribbon  run  through  inser- 
tion and  tied  in  bows  at  the  two  corners.  These 
bags  she  placed  among  the  sheets,  much  to  the 
wonder  of  Lalkhan,  who,  however,  decided  that  it 
was  kindly  meant  and  therefore  did  not  interfere. 

The  odour  was  not  one  that  commended  itself 
to  him.  It  was  far  too  faint  and  elusive.  He 
could  understand  a  liking  for  attar  of  roses,  of 
jessamine,  of  musk,  or  of  any  of  the  strong  scents 
beloved  by  the  native  of  India.  Yet  had  she 
proposed  to  sprinkle  the  sheets  with  any  of  these 

144 


The  State  of  Peter 

essences  he  would  have  felt  obliged  to  interfere,  as 
the  sahib  swore  violently  and  became  exceedingly 
hot  and  angry  did  any  member  of  his  household 
venture  into  his  presence  thus  perfumed.  Even 
as  it  was  he  fully  expected  that  his  master  would 
irritably  demand  the  cause  of  the  infernal  smell 
that  pervaded  his  bed;  so  keen  are  the  noses  of 
the  sahibs.  Whereupon  Lalkhan,  strong  in  rec- 
titude, would  relate  exactly  what  had  happened, 
produce  one  of  the  Jan-incriminating  muslin  bags, 
escape  further  censure,  and  doubtless  be  com- 
manded to  burn  it  and  its  fellows  in  the  kitchen 
stove.  But  nothing  of  the  kind  occurred,  and, 
as  it  is  always  easier  to  leave  a  thing  where  it  has 
been  placed  than  to  remove  it,  the  lavender  re- 
mained among  the  sheets  in  humble  obscurity. 

The  old  garden  at  Wren's  End  abounded  in 
great  lavender  bushes,  and  every  year  since  it 
became  her  property  Jan  made  lavender  sachets 
which  she  kept  in  every  possible  place.  Her  own 
clothes  always  held  a  fault  savour  of  lavender, 
and  she  had  packed  these  bags  as  much  as  a 
matter  of  course  as  she  packed  her  stockings. 
It  seemed  a  shame,  though,  to  take  them  home 
again  when  she  could  get  plenty  more  next  sum- 
mer, so  she  left  them  in  the  bungalow  linen  cup- 
board. They  reproduced  her  atmosphere;  there- 
fore did  Peter  dream  of  Jan. 

A  fortnight  passed,  and  on  their  way  to  catch 
the  homeward  mail  came  Thomas  Crosbie  and 
his  wife  from  Dariawarpur  to  stay  the  night. 
Next  morning  at  breakfast  Mrs.  Crosbie,  young, 
pretty  and  enthusiastic,  expatiated  on  the  com- 

145 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

fort  of  her  room,  finally  exclaiming:  "And  how, 
Mr.  Ledgard,  do  you  manage  to  have  your  sheets 
so  deliciously  scented  with  lavender — d'you  get 
it  sent  out  from  home  every  year?" 

"Lavender?"  Peter  repeated.  "I've  got  no 
lavender.  My  people  never  sent  me  any,  and 
I've  certainly  never  come  across  any  in  India." 

"But  I'm  convinced  everything  smelt  of  laven- 
der. It  made  me  think  of  home  so.  If  I  hadn't 
been  just  going  I'd  have  been  too  homesick  for 
words.  I'm  certain  of  it.  Think!  You  must 
have  got  some  from  somewhere  and  forgotten 
it." 

Peter  shook  his  head.  "I've  never  noticed  it 
myself — you  really  must  be  mistaken.  What 
would  I  be  doing  with  lavender?" 

"It  was  there  all  the  same,"  Mrs.  Crosbie  con- 
tinued. "I'm  certain  of  it.  You  must  have  got 
some  from  somewhere.  Do  find  out — I'm  sure 
I'm  not  wrong.  Ask  your  boy." 

Peter  said  something  to  Lalkhan,  who  explained 
volubly.  Tom  Crosbie  grinned;  he  understood 
even  fluent  Hindustani.  His  wife  did  not.  Peter 
looked  a  little  uncomfortable.  Lalkhan  salaamed 
and  left  the  room. 

"Well?"  Mrs.  Crosbie  asked. 

"It  seems,"  Peter  said  slowly,  "there  is  some- 
thing among  the  sheets.  I've  sent  Lalkhan  to 
get  it." 

Lalkhan  returned,  bearing  a  salver,  and  laid  on 
the  salver  was  one  of  Jan's  lavender  bags.  He 
presented  it  solemnly  to  his  master,  who  with 
almost  equal  solemnity  handed  it  to  Mrs.  Crosbie. 

146 


The  State  of  Peter 

"There!"  she  said.  "Of  course  I  knew  I 
couldn't  be  mistaken.  Now  where  did  you  get 
it?" 

"It  was,  I  suppose,  put  among  the  things 
when  poor  Mrs.  Tancred  had  the  flat.  I  never 
noticed,  of  course — it's  such  an  unobtrusive  sort 
of  smell  .  .  ." 

"Hadn't  she  a  sister?"  Mrs.  Crosbie  asked, 
curiously,  holding  the  little  sachet  against  her 
soft  cheek  and  looking  very  hard  at  Peter. 

"She  had.  It  was  she  who  took  the  children 
home,  you  know." 

"Older  or  younger  than  Mrs.  Tancred?" 

"Older." 

"How  much  older?" 

"I  really  don't  know,"  said  the  mendacious 
Peter. 

"Was  she  awfully  pretty,  too?" 

"Again,  I  really  don't  know.  I  never  thought 
about  her  looks  .  .  .  she  had  grey  hair  .  .  ." 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Crosbie  exclaimed — a  deeply  dis- 
appointed "Oh."  "Probably  much  older,  then. 
That  explains  the  lavender  bags." 

Silent  Thomas  Crosbie  looked  from  his  wife  to 
Peter  with  considerable  amusement.  He  realised, 
if  she  didn't,  that  Peter  was  most  successfully 
putting  her  off  the  scent  of  more  than  lavender; 
but  men  are  generally  loyal  to  each  other  in  these 
matters,  and  he  suddenly  took  his  part  in  the 
conversation  and  changed  the  subject. 

Among  Peter's  orders  to  his  butler  that  morn- 
ing was  one  to  the  effect  that  nothing  the  Miss- 
Sahib  had  arranged  in  the  bungalow  was  to  be 

147 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

disturbed,  and  the  lavender  bag  was  returned  to 
rejoin  its  fellows  in  the  cupboard. 

It  was  four  years  since  Peter  had  had  any 
leave,  and  it  appeared  that  the  lavender  had  the 
same  effect  upon  him  as  upon  Mrs.  Crosbie.  He 
felt  homesick — and  applied  for  leave  in  May. 


148 


CHAPTER  XII 

"THE  BEST-LAID  SCHEMES" 

pETER  had  been  as  good  as  his  word,  and 
•*-  had  found  a  family  returning  to  India  who 
were  glad  to  take  Ayah  back  to  Bombay.  And 
she,  though  sorry  to  leave  Jan  and  the  children, 
acquiesced  in  all  arrangements  made  for  her  with 
the  philosophic  patience  of  the  East.  March 
was  a  cold  month,  and  she  was  often  rather  mis- 
erable, in  spite  of  her  pride  in  her  shoes  and 
stockings  and  the  warm  clothes  Jan  had  provided 
for  her. 

Before  she  left  Jan  interviewed  her  new  mis- 
tress and  found  her  kind  and  sensible,  and  an 
old  campaigner  who  had  made  the  voyage  in- 
numerable times. 

It  certainly  occurred  to  Jan  that  Peter  had 
been  extraordinarily  quick  in  making  this  ar- 
rangement, but  she  concluded  that  he  had  writ- 
ten on  the  subject  before  they  left  India.  She 
had  no  idea  that  he  had  sent  a  long  and  costly 
cable  on  the  subject.  His  friend  thought  him 
very  solicitous  for  her  comfort,  but  set  it  down 
entirely  to  her  own  merits  and  Peter's  discrim- 
inating good  sense. 

When  the  day  came  Jan  took  Ayah  to  her  new 
quarters  in  a  taxi.  Of  course  Ayah  wept,  and 

149 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Jan  felt  like  weeping  herself,  as  she  would  like 
to  have  kept  her  on  for  the  summer  months. 
But  she  knew  it  wouldn't  do;  that  apart  from 
the  question  of  expense,  Hannah  could  never 
overcome  her  prejudices  against  "that  heathen 
buddy,"  and  that  to  have  explained  that  poor 
Ayah  was  a  Roman  Catholic  would  only  have 
made  matters  worse.  Hannah  was  too  valuable 
in  every  way  to  upset  her  with  impunity,  and  the 
chance  of  sending  Ayah  back  to  India  in  such 
kind  custody  was  too  good  to  lose. 

Meg  had  deferred  the  adoption  of  the  musical- 
comedy  costume  until  such  time  as  she  took  over 
Ayah's  duties.  She  in  no  way  interfered,  but  was 
helpful  in  so  many  unobtrusive  ways  that  Jan, 
while  she  still  felt  guilty  in  allowing  her  to  stay 
at  all,  acknowledged  she  could  never  have  got 
through  this  tune  without  her. 

Fortunately  the  day  of  Ayah's  departure  was 
fine,  so  that  while  Jan  took  her  to  her  destination 
Meg  took  the  children  to  spend  the  afternoon  at 
the  Zoo.  To  escort  little  Fay  about  London  was 
always  rather  an  ordeal  to  anyone  of  a  retiring 
disposition.  She  was  so  fearless,  so  interested  in 
her  fellow-creatures,  and  so  ready  at  all  times  and 
in  all  places  to  enter  into  conversation  with  abso- 
lute strangers,  preferably  men,  that  embarrassing 
situations  were  almost  inevitable;  and  her  speech, 
high  and  clear  and  carrying — in  spite  of  the  miss- 
ing "r" — rendered  it  rarely  possible  to  hope 
people  did  not  understand  what  she  said. 

They  went  by  the  Metropolitan  to  Baker 
Street  and  sat  on  one  of  the  small  seats  at  right 

150 


"The  Best-Laid  Schemes" 

angles  to  the  windows,  and  a  gentleman  wearing 
a  very  shiny  top-hat  sat  down  opposite  to  them. 

He  looked  at  little  Fay;  little  Fay  looked  at 
him  and,  smiling  her  adorable,  confident  smile, 
leant  forward,  remarking:  "Sahib,  you  wear  a 
very  high  hat." 

Instantly  the  eyes  of  all  the  neighbouring  pas- 
sengers were  fixed  upon  the  hat  and  its  owner. 
His,  however,  were  only  for  the  very  small  lady 
that  faced  him;  the  small  lady  in  a  close  white 
bonnet  and  bewitching  curls  that  bobbed  and 
fluttered  in  the  swaying  of  the  train. 

He  took  off  the  immaculate  topper  and  held  it 
out  towards  her.  "There,"  he  said,  "would  you 
like  to  look  at  it?" 

Fay  carefully  rubbed  it  the  wrong  way  with  a 
tentative  woolly-gloved  finger.  "Plitty,  high 
hat,"  she  cooed.  "Can  plitty  little  Fay  have  it 
to  keep?" 

But  the  gentleman's  admiration  did  not  carry 
him  as  far  as  this.  Somewhat  hastily  he  with- 
drew his  hat,  smoothed  it  (it  had  just  been  ironed) 
and  placed  it  on  his  head  again.  Then  he  be- 
came aware  of  the  smiling  faces  and  concentrated 
gaze  of  his  neighbours;  also,  that  the  attractive 
round  face  that  had  given  him  so  much  pleasure 
had  exchanged  its  captivating  smile  for  a  pathetic 
melancholy  that  even  promised  tears.  He  turned 
extremely  red  and  escaped  at  the  next  station. 
Whereupon  ungrateful  little  Fay,  who  had  never 
had  the  slightest  intention  of  crying,  remarked 
loftily:  "Tahsome  man  dawn." 

When  at  last  they  reached  the  Zoo  Meg  took 
151 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

it  upon  herself  to  remonstrate  with  her  younger 
charge. 

"You  mustn't  ask  strangers  for  things,  dear; 
you  really  mustn't — not  in  the  street  or  in  the 
train." 

"What  for?"  asked  Fay.  She  nearly  always 
said,  "What  for"  when  she  meant  "Why";  and 
it  was  as  hard-worked  a  phrase  as  "What  nelse?" 

"Because  people  don't  do  it,  you  know." 

"They  do— I've  heard  'em." 

"Well,  beggars  perhaps,  but  not  nice  little 
girls." 

" Do  nasty  little  girls?" 

"  Only  nasty  little  girls  would  do  it,  I  think." 

Fay  pondered  this  for  a  minunte,  then  in  a 
regretfully  reflective  voice  she  said  sadly:  "Vat 
was  a  nasty,  gleedy  sahib  in  a  tlain." 

"Not  at  all,"  Meg  argued,  struggling  with  her 
mirth.  "How  would  you  have  liked  it  if  he'd 
asked  you  to  give  him  your  bonnet '  to  keep '  ?  " 

Little  Fay  hastily  put  up  her  hands  to  her 
head  to  be  sure  her  bonnet  was  in  its  place,  then 
she  inquired  with  great  interest:  "What's  'is 
place,  deah  Med?" 

"Deah  Med"  soon  found  herself  followed  round 
by  a  small  crowd  of  other  sight-seers  who  waited 
for  and  greeted  little  Fay's  unceasing  comments 
with  joyful  appreciation.  Such  popular  publicity 
was  not  at  all  to  Meg's  taste,  and  although  the 
afternoon  was  extremely  cold  her  cheeks  never 
ceased  to  burn  till  she  got  the  children  safely 
back  to  the  flat  again.  Tony  was  gloomy  and 
taciturn.  Nobody  took  the  slightest  notice  of 

152 


"The  Best-Laid  Schemes" 

him.  Weather  that  seemed  to  brace  his  sister  to 
the  most  energetic  gaiety  only  made  him  feel 
torpid  and  miserable.  He  was  not  naughty, 
merely  apathetic,  uninterested,  and  consequently 
uninteresting.  Meg  thought  he  might  be  home- 
sick and  sad  about  Ayah,  and  was  very  kind  and 
gentle,  but  her  advances  met  with  no  response. 

By  this  time  Tony  was  sure  of  his  aunt,  but  he 
had  by  no  means  made  up  his  mind  about  Meg. 

When  they  got  back  to  Kensington  Meg  joy- 
ously handed  over  the  children  to  Jan  while  she 
retired  to  her  room  to  array  herself  in  her  uni- 
form. She  was  to  "take  over"  from  that  mo- 
ment, and  approached  her  new  sphere  with  high 
seriousness  and  an  intense  desire  to  be,  as  she 
put  it,  "a  wild  success." 

For  weeks  she  had  been  reading  the  publica- 
tions of  the  P.  N.  E.  U.  and  the  "Child-Study 
Society,"  to  say  nothing  of  Manuals  upon  "In- 
fant Hygiene,"  "The  Montessori  Method"  and 
"The  Formation  of  Character."  Sympathy  and 
Insight,  Duty  and  Discipline,  Self-Control  and 
Obedience,  Regularity  and  Concentration  of  Ef- 
fort— all  with  the  largest  capitals — were  to  be 
her  watchwords.  And  she  buttoned  on  her  well- 
fitting  white  linen  apron  (newest  and  most  ap- 
proved hospital  pattern,  which  she  had  been 
obliged  to  make  herself,  for  she  could  buy  noth- 
ing small  enough)  in  a  spirit  of  dedication  as  sin- 
cere as  that  imbuing  any  candidate  for  Holy  Or- 
ders. Then,  almost  breathlessly,  she  put  her 
cap  upon  her  flaming  head  and  surveyed  the  gen- 
eral effect  in  the  long  glass. 

153 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Yes,  it  was  all  very  satisfactory.  Well-hung, 
short,  green  linen  frock — was  it  a  trifle  short? 
Yet  the  little  feet  in  the  low-heeled  shoes  were 
neat  as  the  ankles  above  them  were  slim,  and  one 
needed  a  short  skirt  for  "working  about." 

Perhaps  there  was  a  touch  of  musical  comedy 
about  her  appearance,  but  that  was  merely  be- 
cause she  was  so  small  and  the  cap,  a  muslin  cap 
of  a  Quakerish  shape,  distinctly  becoming.  Well, 
there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  want  to  look 
hideous.  She  would  not  be  less  capable  because 
she  was  pleasing  to  the  eye. 

She  seized  her  flannel  apron  from  the  bed 
where  she  had  placed  it  ready  before  she  went 
out,  and  with  one  last  lingering  look  at  herself 
went  swiftly  to  her  new  duties. 

Tea  passed  peacefully  enough,  though  Fay 
asked  embarrassing  questions,  such  as  "Why  you 
wear  suts  a  funny  hat?" 

"Because  I'm  an  ayah,"  Meg  answered  quickly. 

"Ayahs  don't  wear  zose  kind  of  hats." 

"English  ayahs  do,  and  I'm  going  to  be  your 
ayah,  you  know." 

Fay  considered  Meg  for  a  minute.  "No,"  she 
said,  shaking  her  head.  "No." 

"Have  another  sponge-finger,"  Jan  suggested 
diplomatically,  handing  the  dish  to  her  niece, 
and  the  danger  was  averted. 

They  played  games  with  the  children  after  tea 
and  all  went  well  till  bed-time.  Meg  had  begged 
Jan  to  leave  them  entirely  to  her,  and  with  con- 
siderable misgiving  she  had  seen  Meg  marshal 
the  children  to  the  bathroom  and  shut  the  door. 

154 


"The  Best-Laid  Schemes" 

Tony  was  asked  as  a  favour  to  go,  too  this  first 
evening  without  Ayah,  lest  little  Fay  should  feel 
lonely.  It  was  queer,  Jan  reflected  when  left 
alone  hi  the  drawing-room,  how  she  seemed  to 
turn  to  the  taciturn  Tony  for  help  where  her  ob- 
streperous niece  was  concerned.  Over  and  over 
again  Tony  had  intervened  and  successfully  pre- 
vented a  storm. 

Meg  turned  on  the  bath  and  began  to  un- 
dress little  Fay.  She  bore  this  with  comparative 
meekness,  but  when  all  her  garments  had  been 
removed  she  slipped  from  Meg's  knees  and,  stand- 
ing squarely  on  the  floor,  announced: 

"I  want  my  own  Ayah.  Engliss  Ayah  not 
wass  me.  Own  Ayah  muss  come  bat." 

"She  can't,  my  darling;  she's  gone  to  other 
little  girls,  you  know — we  told  you  many  days 
ago." 

"She  muss  come  bat — 'jaldi,'"  shouted  Fay — 
"jaldi"  being  Hindustani  for  "quickly." 

Meg  sighed.  "I'm  afraid  she  can't  do  that. 
Come,  my  precious,  and  let  me  bathe  you;  you'll 
get  cold  standing  there." 

With  a  quick  movement  Meg  seized  the  plump, 
round  body.  She  was  muscular  though  so  small, 
and  in  spite  of  little  Fay's  opposition  she  lifted 
her  into  the  bath.  She  felt  Tony  pull  at  her 
skirts  and  say  something,  but  was  too  busy  to 
pay  attention. 

Little  Fay  was  in  the  bath  sure  enough,  but  to 
wash  her  was  quite  another  matter.  You  may 
lead  a  sturdy  infant  of  three  to  the  water  in  a 
fixed  bath,  but  no  power  on  earth  can  wash  that 

155 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

infant  if  it  doesn't  choose.  Fay  screamed  and 
struggled  and  wriggled  and  kicked,  finally  slipping 
right  under  the  water,  which  frightened  her 
dreadfully;  she  lost  her  breath  for  one  second, 
only  to  give  forth  ear-splitting  yells  the  next. 
She  was  slippery  as  a  trout  and  strong  as  a  leap- 
ing salmon. 

Jan  could  bear  it  no  longer  and  came  in.  Meg 
had  succeeded  in  lifting  the  terrified  baby  out  of 
the  bath,  and  she  stood  on  the  square  of  cork  de- 
fying the  "Engliss  Ayah,"  wet  from  her  topmost 
curl  to  her  pink  toes,  but  wholly  unwashed. 

Tony  ran  to  Jan  and  under  all  the  din  con- 
trived to  say:  "It's  the  big  bath;  she's  frightened. 
Ayah  never  put  her  in  the  big  bath." 

Meg  had  forgotten  this.  The  little  tin  bath 
they  had  brought  from  India  for  the  voyage 
stood  hi  a  corner. 

It  was  filled,  while  Fay,  wrapped  in  a  Turkish 
towel,  sobbed  more  quietly,  ejaculating  between 
the  gurgles:  "Nasty  hat,  nasty  Engliss  Ayah.  I 
want  my  own  deah  Ayah ! " 

When  the  bath  was  ready  poor  Meg  again  ap- 
proached little  Fay,  but  Fay  would  have  none 
of  her. 

"No,"  she  wailed,  "Engliss  Ayah  in  nasty  hat 
not  wass  me.  Tony  wass  me,  deah  Tony." 

She  held  out  her  arms  to  her  brother,  who 
promptly  received  her  hi  his. 

"You'd  better  let  me,"  he  said  to  the  anxious 
young  women.  "  We'll  never  get  her  finished  else." 

So  it  ended  hi  Tony's  being  arrayed  hi  the 
flannel  apron  which,  tied  under  his  arm-pits,  was 

156 


He  washed  his  small  sister  with  thoroughness  and  despatch, 
pointing  out  .  .  .  that  he  "  went  into  all  the  corners." 


"The  Best-Laid  Schemes" 

not  so  greatly  too  long.  With  his  sleeves  turned 
up  he  washed  his  small  sister  with  thoroughness 
and  despatch,  pointing  out  somewhat  proudly  that 
he  "went  into  all  the  corners." 

The  washing-glove  was  very  large  on  Tony's 
little  hand,  and  he  used  a  tremendous  lot  of  soap 
— but  Fay  became  all  smiles  and  amiability  dur- 
ing the  process.  Meg  and  Jan  had  tears  in  their 
eyes  as  they  watched  the  quaint  spectacle.  There 
was  something  poignantly  pathetic  hi  the  cling- 
ing together  of  these  two  small  wayfarers  in  a 
strange  country,  so  far  from  all  they  had  known 
and  shared  in  their  short  experience. 

Meg's  "nasty  hat"  was  rakishly  askew  upon 
her  red  curls,  for  Fay  had  frequently  grabbed  at 
it  in  her  rage,  and  the  beautiful  green  linen  gown 
was  sopping  wet. 

"Engliss  Ayah  dying!"  Fay  remarked  surpris- 
edly.  "What  for?" 

"Because  you  wouldn't  let  me  bathe  you,"  said 
Meg  dismally.  Her  voice  broke.  She  really  was 
most  upset.  As  it  happened,  she  did  the  only 
thing  that  would  have  appealed  to  little  Fay. 

"Don't  cly,  deah  Med,"  she  said  sweetly. 
"You  sail  dly  me." 

And  Meg,  student  of  so  many  manuals,  hum- 
bly and  gratefully  accepted  the  task. 

It  had  taken  exactly  an  hour  and  a  quarter  to 
get  Fay  ready  for  bed.  Indian  Ayah  used  to  do 
it  in  fifteen  minutes. 

Consistently  and  cheerfully  gracious,  Fay  per- 
mitted Meg  to  carry  her  to  her  cot  and  tuck  her 
in. 

157 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Meg  lit  the  night-light  and  switched  off  the 
light,  when  a  melancholy  voice  began  to  chant: 

"  My  Ayah  always  dave  me  a  choccly." 

Now  there  was  no  infant  hi  London  less  de- 
serving of  a  choccly  at  that  moment  than  trouble- 
some little  Fay.  "Nursery  Hygiene"  proclaimed 
the  undeniable  fact  that  sweetmeats  last  thing 
at  night  are  most  injurious.  Duty  and  Discipline 
and  Self-Control  should  all  have  pointed  out  the 
evil  of  any  indulgence  of  the  sort.  Yet  Meg, 
with  all  her  theories  quite  fresh  and  new,  and 
with  this  excellent  opportunity  of  putting  them 
into  practice,  extracted  a  choccly  from  a  box  on 
the  chest  of  drawers;  and  when  the  voice,  "like 
broken  music,"  announced  for  the  third  tune, 
" My  Ayah  always  dave  me  a  choccly,"  "So  will 
this  Ayah,"  said  Meg,  and  popped  it  into  the 
mouth  whence  the  voice  issued. 

There  was  a  satisfied  smacking  and  munching 
for  a  space,  when  the  voice  took  up  the  tale: 

"Once  Tony  had  thlee— 

But  what  it  was  Tony  once  had  "thlee"  of  Meg 
was  not  to  know  that  night,  for  naughty  little 
Fay  fell  fast  asleep. 

For  a  week  Tony  bathed  his  sister  every  night. 
Neither  Jan  nor  Meg  felt  equal  to  facing  and 
going  through  again  the  terrors  of  that  first  night 
without  Ayah.  Little  Fay  was  quite  good — she 
permitted  Meg  to  undress  her  and  even  to  put 
her  in  the  little  bath,  but  once  there  she  always 
said  firmly,  "Tony  wass  me,"  and  Tony  did. 

Then  he  burned  his  hand. 
158 


"The  Best-Laid  Schemes" 

He  was  never  openly  and  obstreperously  dis- 
obedient like  little  Fay.  On  the  whole  he  pre- 
ferred a  quiet  life  free  from  contention.  But  very 
early  in  their  acquaintance  Jan  had  discovered 
that  what  Tony  determined  upon  that  he  did, 
and  in  this  he  resembled  her  so  strongly  that  she 
felt  a  secret  sympathy  with  him,  even  when  such 
tenacity  of  purpose  was  most  inconvenient. 

He  liked  to  find  things  out  for  himself,  and  no 
amount  of  warning  or  prohibition  could  prevent 
his  investigations.  Thus  it  came  about  that, 
carefully  guarded  as  the  children  were  from  any 
contact  with  the  fires,  Tony  simply  didn't  be- 
lieve what  was  told  him  of  their  dangers. 

Fires  were  new  to  him.  They  were  so  pretty, 
with  their  dancing  flames,  it  seemed  a  pity  to 
shut  them  in  behind  those  latticed  guards  Auntie 
Jan  was  so  fond  of.  Never  did  Tony  see  the 
fires  without  those  tiresome  guards  and  he  wanted 
to  very  much. 

One  afternoon  just  before  tea,  while  Meg  was 
changing  little  Fay's  frock,  he  slipped  across  to 
the  drawing-room  where  Auntie  Jan  was  busy 
writing  a  letter.  Joy !  the  guard  was  off  the  fire; 
he  could  sit  on  the  rug  and  watch  it  undisturbed. 
He  made  no  noise,  but  knelt  down  softly  in  front 
of  it  and  stretched  out  his  hands  to  the  pleasant 
warmth.  It  was  the  sort  of  fire  Tony  liked  to 
watch,  red  at  the  heart,  with  little  curling  flames 
that  were  mirrored  in  the  tiled  hearth. 

Jan  looked  up  from  her  writing  and  saw  him 
there,  saw  also  that  there  was  no  guard,  but,  as 
little  Fay  had  not  yet  come,  thought  Tony  far 

159 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

too  sensible  to  interfere  with  the  fire  in  any  way. 
She  went  on  with  her  writing;  then  when  she 
looked  again  something  in  the  intentness  of  his 
attitude  caused  her  to  say:  "Be  sure  you  don't 
get  too  near  the  fire,  Tony;  it  hurts  badly  to  be 
burned." 

"Yes,  Auntie  Jan,"  Tony  said  meekly. 

She  wrote  a  few  lines  more,  looked  up,  and 
held  her  breath.  It  would  have  been  an  easy 
matter  even  then  to  dash  across  and  put  on  the 
guard;  but  in  a  flash  Jan  realised  that  to  let  Tony 
burn  himself  a  little  at  that  moment  might  save 
a  very  bad  accident  later  on.  There  was  nothing 
in  his  clothes  to  catch  alight.  His  woollen  jer- 
sey fitted  closely. 

Exactly  as  though  he  were  going  to  pick  a 
flower,  with  curved  hand  outstretched  Tony 
tried  to  capture  and  hold  one  of  the  dancing 
flames.  He  drew  his  hand  back  very  quickly, 
and  Jan  expected  a  loud  outcry,  but  none  came. 
He  sat  back  on  the  hearth-rug  and  rocked  his 
body  to  and  fro,  holding  the  burnt  right  hand 
with  his  left,  but  he  did  not  utter  a  sound. 

"It  does  hurt,  doesn't  it?"  said  Jan. 

He  started  at  the  quiet  voice  and  turned  a  lit- 
tle puckered  face  towards  her.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
with  a  big  sigh;  "but  I  know  now." 

"Come  with  me  and  I'll  put  something  on  it 
to  make  it  hurt  less,"  said  Jan,  and  crossed  to  the 
door. 

"Hadn't  we  better,"  he  said,  rather  breath- 
lessly, "put  that  thing  on  for  fear  of  Fay?" 

Jan  carefully  replaced  the  "thing"  and  took 
160 


"The  Best-Laid  Schemes" 

him  to  her  room,  where  she  bandaged  the  poor 
little  hand  with  carron-oil  and  cotton-wool.  The 
outer  edge  was  scorched  from  little  finger  to 
wrist.  She  made  no  remark  while  she  did  it, 
and  Tony  leaned  confidingly  against  her  the 
while. 

"Is  that  better?"  she  asked,  when  she  had  fas- 
tened the  final  safety-pin  in  the  bandage.  There 
was  one  big  tear  on  Tony's  cheek. 

"It's  nice  and  cool,  that  stuff.  Why  does  it 
hurt  so,  Auntie  Jan?  It  looks  so  kind  and 
pretty." 

"It  is  kind  and  pretty,  only  we  mustn't  go  too 
near.  Will  you  be  sure  and  tell  Fay  how  it  can 
hurt?" 

"I'll  tell  her,"  he  promised,  but  he  didn't  seem 
to  have  much  hope  of  the  news  acting  as  a  de- 
terrent. 

When  at  bed-time  Jan  announced  that  Tony 
could  not  possibly  bathe  Fay  because  he  mustn't 
get  his  hand  wet  or  disturb  the  dressing,  she  and 
Meg  tremblingly  awaited  the  awful  fuss  that 
seemed  bound  to  follow. 

But  Fay  was  always  unexpected.  "Then  Med 
muss  wass  me,"  she  remarked  calmly.  The  good 
custom  was  established  and  Meg  began  to  perk 
up  again. 


161 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   WHEELS   OF   CHANCE 

MEG  was  out  walking  with  the  children  in 
Kensington  Gardens,  and  Hannah  was  pay- 
ing the  tradesmen's  books.  It  was  the  only  way 
to  make  Hannah  take  the  air,  to  send  her,  as  she 
put  it,  "to  do  the  messages."  She  liked  paying 
the  books  herself,  for  she  always  suspected  Jan  of 
not  counting  the  change. 

Jan  was  alone  in  the  flat  and  was  laying  tea 
for  the  children  in  the  dining-room  when  "ting" 
went  the  electric  bell.  She  opened  the  door  to 
find  upon  the  threshold  an  exceedingly  tall  young 
man;  a  well-set-up,  smart  young  man  with  square 
shoulders,  who  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  saying 
hi  a  friendly  voice:  "You  may  just  happen  to 
remember  me,  Miss  Ross,  but  probably  not. 
Colonel  Walcote's  my  uncle,  and  he's  living  in 
your  house,  you  know.  My  name's  Middleton 
...  I  hope  you  remember  me,  for  I've  come  to 
ask  a  favour." 

As  he  spoke  he  gave  Jan  his  card,  and  on  it 
was  "Captain  Miles  Middleton,  R.  H.  A.,"  and 
the  addresses  of  two  clubs. 

She  led  him  to  the  little  drawing-room,  bracing 
herself  the  while  to  be  firm  in  her  refusal  if  the 
Walcotes  wanted  the  house  any  longer,  good  ten- 
ants though  they  were. 

162 


The  Wheels  of  Chance 

She  was  hopelessly  vague  about  her  guest,  but 
felt  she  had  met  him  somewhere.  She  didn't  like 
to  confess  how  slight  her  recollection  was,  for  he 
looked  so  big  and  brown  and  friendly  it  seemed 
unkind. 

He  sat  down,  smoothed  his  hat,  and  then  with 
an  engaging  smile  that  showed  his  excellent  teeth, 
began:  "I've  come — it  sounds  rather  farcical, 
doesn't  it — about  a  dog?" 

"A  dog?"  Jan  repeated  vaguely.  "What 
dog?" 

"Well,  he's  my  dog  at  present,  but  I  want  him 
to  be  your  dog — if  you'll  have  him." 

"You  want  to  give  me  a  dog — but  why?  Or 
do  you  only  want  me  to  keep  him  a  bit  for  you?" 

"Well,  it's  like  this,  Miss  Ross;  it  would  be 
cheek  to  ask  you  to  keep  a  young  dog,  and  when 
you'd  had  all  the  trouble  of  him  and  got  fond  of 
him — and  you'll  get  awfully  fond  of  him,  if  you 
have  him — to  take  him  away  again.  It  wouldn't 
be  fair,  it  really  wouldn't  ...  so  ..." 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  the  cautious  Jan.  "What 
sort  of  a  dog  is  he  ...  if  it  is  a  he  ..  ." 

"He's  a  bull-terrier  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  think  I'm  very  fond  of  bull- 
terriers  .  .  .  aren't  they  fierce  and  doesn't  one 
always  associate  them  with  public-houses?  I 
couldn't  have  a  fierce  dog,  you  know,  because  of 
the  two  children." 

"They're  always  nice  with  children,"  Captain 
Middleton  said  firmly.  "And  as  for  the  pot- 
house idea — that's  quite  played  out.  I  suppose 
it  was  that  picture  with  the  mug  and  the  clay 

163 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

pipe.  He'd  love  the  children;  he's  only  a  child 
himself,  you  know." 

"A  puppy!  Oh,  Captain  Middleton,  wouldn't 
he  eat  all  our  shoes  and  things  and  tear  up  all  the 
rugs?" 

"I  think  he's  past  that,  I  do  really — he'll  be  a 
year  old  on  Monday.  He'll  be  a  splendid  watch- 
dog, and  he's  not  a  bit  deaf — lots  of  'em  are,  you 
know — and  he's  frightfully  well-bred.  Just  you 
look  at  the  pedigree  ..."  and  Captain  Middle- 
ton  produced  from  his  breast-pocket  a  folded 
foolscap  document  which  he  handed  to  Jan. 

She  gazed  at  it  with  polite  interest,  though  it 
conveyed  but  little  to  her  mind.  The  name 
"Bloomsbury"  seemed  to  come  over  and  over 
again.  There  were  many  dates  and  other  names, 
but  "Bloomsbury"  certainly  prevailed,  and  it 
was  evident  that  Captain  Middleton's  dog  had 
a  long  pedigree;  it  was  all  quite  clearly  set  down, 
and,  to  Jan,  very  bewildering. 

"His  points  are  on  the  back  page,"  Captain 
Middleton  said  proudly,  "and  there  isn't  a  single 
one  a  perfect  bull-terrier  ought  to  have  that 
William  Bloomsbury  hasn't  got." 

"Is  that  his  name?" 

"Yes,  but  I  call  him  William,  only  he  is  of  the 
famous  Bloomsbury  strain,  you  know,  and  one 
can't  help  being  a  bit  proud  of  it." 

"But,"  Jan  objected,  "if  he's  so  well-bred  and 
perfect,  he  must  be  valuable — so  why  should  you 
want  to  give  him  to  me?" 

"I'll  explain,"  said  Captain  Middleton.  "You 
see,  ever  since  they've  been  down  at  Wren's  End, 

164 


The  Wheels  of  Chance 

my  aunt  kept  him  for  me.  He's  been  so  happy 
there,  Miss  Ross,  and  grown  like  anything. 
We're  stationed  in  St.  John's  Wood  just  now, 
you  know,  and  he'd  be  certain  to  be  stolen  if  I 
took  him  back  there.  And  now  my  aunt's  com- 
ing to  London  to  a  flat  in  Buckingham  Gate. 
Now  London's  no  life  for  a  dog — a  young  dog, 
anyway — he'd  be  miserable.  I've  been  down  to 
Wren's  End  very  often  for  a  few  days'  hunting, 
and  I  can  see  he's  happy  as  a  king  there,  and  we 
may  be  ordered  anywhere  any  day  .  .  .  and  I 
don't  want  to  sell  him  .  .  .  You  see,  I  know  if 
you  take  him  you'll  be  good  to  him  .  .  .  and  he 
is  such  a  nice  beast." 

"How  do  you  know  I'd  be  good  to  him?  You 
know  nothing  about  me." 

"Don't  I  just!  Besides,  I've  seen  you,  I'm 
seeing  you  now  this  minute  ...  I  don't  want  to 
force  him  on  you,  only  ...  a  lady  living  alone 
in  the  country  ought  to  have  a  dog,  and  if  you 
take  William  you  won't  be  sorry — I  can  promise 
you  that.  He's  got  the  biggest  heart,  and  he's 
the  nicest  beast  .  .  .  and  the  most  faithful  .  .  ." 

"Are  you  sure  he'll  be  quite  gentle  with  the 
children?" 

"He's  gentle  with  everybody,  and  they're  well 
known  to  be  particularly  good  with  children  .  .  . 
you  ask  anyone  who  knows  about  dogs.  He  was 
given  me  when  he  was  three  weeks  old,  and  I 
could  put  him  in  my  pocket." 

Captain  Middleton  was  rather  appealing  just 
then,  so  earnest  and  big  and  boyish.  His  face 
was  broad  though  lean,  the  features  rather  blunt, 

165 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

the  eyes  set  wide  apart;  clear,  trustworthy,  light- 
blue  eyes.  He  looked  just  what  he  was — a 
healthy,  happy,  prosperous  young  Englishman 
without  a  real  care  in  the  world.  After  all,  Jan 
reflected,  there  was  plenty  of  room  at  Wren's 
End,  and  it  was  good  for  the  children  to  grow  up 
with  animals. 

"I  had  thought  of  an  Airedale,"  she  said 
thoughtfully,  "but— 

"They're  good  dogs,  but  quarrelsome — fight 
all  the  other  dogs  round  about.  Now  William 
isn't  a  fighter  unless  he's  unbearably  provoked, 
then,  of  course,  he  fights  to  kill." 

"Oh  dear!"  sighed  Jan,  "that's  an  awful  pros- 
pect. Think  of  the  trouble  with  one's  neigh- 
bours  " 

"But  I  assure  you,  it  doesn't  happen  once  in  a 
blue  moon.  I've  never  known  him  fight  yet." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Captain  Middleton;  let  me 
keep  him  for  the  present,  till  you  know  where 
you're  going  to  be  stationed,  and  then,  if  you  find 
you  can  have  him,  he's  there  for  you  to  take.  I'll 
do  my  best  for  him,  but  I  want  you  to  feel  he's 
still  your  dog  ..." 

"It's  simply  no  end  good  of  you,  Miss  Ross. 
I'd  like  you  to  have  him  though  .  .  .  May  I  put 
it  this  way?  If  you  don't  like  him,  find  him  a 
nuisance  or  want  to  get  rid  of  him,  you  send  for 
me  and  I'll  fetch  him  away  directly.  But  if  you 
like  him,  he's  your  dog.  There — may  I  leave  it 
at  that?" 

"We'll  try  to  make  him  happy,  but  I  expect 
he'll  miss  you  dreadfully.  ...  I  know  nothing 

166 


The  Wheels  of  Chance 

about  bull-terriers;  do  they  need  any  special 
treatment?" 

"Oh  dear,  no.  William's  as  strong  as  a  young 
calf.  Just  a  bone  occasionally  and  any  scraps 
there  are.  There's  tons  of  his  biscuits  down 
there  .  .  .  only  two  meals  a  day  and  no  snacks 
between,  and  as  much  exercise  as  is  convenient — 
though,  mind  you,  they're  easy  dogs  in  that  way 
—they  don't  need  you  to  be  racing  about  all  day 
like  some." 

The  present  fate  of  William  Bloomsbury  with 
the  lengthy  and  exalted  pedigree  being  settled, 
Jan  asked  politely  for  her  tenants,  Colonel  and 
Mrs.  Walcote,  heard  that  it  had  been  an  excellent 
and  open  season,  and  enjoyed  her  guest's  real 
enthusiasm  about  Wren's  End. 

After  a  few  minutes  of  general  conversation  he 
got  up  to  go.  She  saw  him  out  and  rang  up  the 
lift,  but  no  lift  came.  She  rang  again  and  again. 
Nothing  happened.  Evidently  something  had 
gone  wrong,  and  she  saw  people  walking  upstairs 
to  the  flats  below.  Just  as  she  was  explaining  the 
mishap  to  her  guest,  the  telephone  bell  sounded 
loudly  and  persistently. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  cried.  "Would  you  mind 
very  much  stopping  a  young  lady  with  two  little 
children,  if  you  meet  them  at  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs,  and  tell  her  she  is  on  no  account  to  carry 
up  little  Fay.  It's  my  friend,  Miss  Morton;  she's 
out  with  them,  and  she's  not  at  all  strong;  tell  her 
to  wait  for  me.  I'll  come  the  minute  I've  an- 
swered this  wretched  'phone." 

"Don't  you  worry,  Miss  Ross,  I'll  stop  'em 
167 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

and  carry  up  the  kiddies  myself,"  Captain  Mid- 
dleton  called  as  he  started  to  run  down,  and  Jan 
went  back  to  answer  the  telephone. 

He  ran  fast,  for  Jan's  voice  had  been  anxious 
and  distressed.  Five  long  flights  did  he  descend, 
and  at  the  bottom  he  met  Meg  and  the  children 
just  arrived  to  hear  the  melancholy  news  from 
the  hall  porter. 

Meg  always  wheeled  little  Fay  to  and  from 
the  gardens  in  the  funny  little  folding  "pram" 
they  had  brought  from  India.  The  plump  baby 
was  a  tight  fit,  but  the  queer  little  carriage  was 
light  and  easily  managed.  The  big  policeman 
outside  the  gate  often  held  up  the  traffic  to  let 
Meg  and  her  charges  get  across  the  road  safely, 
and  she  would  sail  serenely  through  the  avenue 
of  fiercely  panting  monsters  with  Tony  holding 
on  to  her  coat,  while  little  Fay  waved  delightedly 
to  the  drivers.  That  afternoon  she  was  very 
tired,  for  it  had  started  to  rain,  cold,  gusty  March 
rain.  She  had  hurried  home  in  dread  lest  Tony 
should  take  cold.  It  seemed  the  last  straw, 
somehow,  that  the  lift  should  have  gone  wrong. 
She  left  the  pram  with  the  porter  and  was  just 
bracing  herself  to  carry  heavy  little  Fay  when 
this  very  tall  young  man  came  dashing  down  the 
staircase,  saw  them  and  raised  his  hat.  "Miss 
Morton?  Miss  Ross  has  just  entrusted  me  with 
a  message  .  .  .  that  I'm  to  carry  her  niece  up- 
stairs," and  he  took  little  Fay  out  of  Meg's  arms. 

Meg  looked  up  at  him.  She  had  to  look  up  a 
long  way — and  he  looked  down  into  a  very  small 
white  face. 

168 


The  Wheels  of  Chance 

The  buffeting  wind  that  had  given  little  Fay 
the  loveliest  colour,  and  Tony  a  very  pink  nose, 
only  left  Meg  pallid  with  fatigue;  but  she  smiled 
at  Captain  Middleton,  and  it  was  a  smile  of  such 
radiant  happiness  as  wholly  transfigured  her  face. 
It  came  from  the  exquisite  knowledge  that  Jan 
had  thought  of  her,  had  known  she  would  be 
tired. 

To  be  loved,  to  be  remembered,  to  be  taken 
care  of  was  to  Meg  the  most  wonderful  thing  in 
the  world.  It  went  to  her  head  like  wine. 

Therefore  did  she  smile  at  Captain  Middleton 
in  this  distracting  fashion.  It  started  trem- 
blingly at  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  and  then — 
quite  suddenly — her  wan  little  face  became  dim- 
pled and  beseeching  and  triumphant  all  at  once. 

It  had  no  connection  whatsoever  with  Captain 
Middleton,  but  how  was  he  to  know  that  ? 

It  fairly  bowled  him,  middle  stump,  first  ball. 

No  one  had  ever  smiled  at  him  like  that  be- 
fore. It  turned  him  hot  and  cold,  and  gave  him 
a  lump  in  his  throat  with  the  sheer  heartrending 
pathos  of  it.  And  he  felt  an  insane  desire  to  lie 
down  and  ask  this  tiny,  tired  girl  to  walk  upon 
him  if  it  would  give  her  the  smallest  satisfaction. 

The  whole  thing  passed  in  a  flash,  but  for  him 
it  was  one  of  those  illuminating  beams  that  dis- 
cover^ a  hitherto  undreamed-of  panorama. 

He  caught  up  little  Fay,  who  made  no  objec- 
tion, and  ran  up  all  five  flights  about  as  fast  as 
he  had  run  down.  Jan  was  just  coming  out  of 
the  flat. 

"Here's  one!"  he  cried  breathlessly,  depositing 
169 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

little  Fay.  "And  now  I'll  go  down  and  give  the 
little  chap  a  ride  as  well." 

He  met  them  half-way  up.  "Now  it's  your 
turn,"  he  said  to  Tony.  "Would  you  like  to 
come  on  my  back?" 

Tony,  though  taciturn,  was  not  unobservant. 
"I  think,"  he  said  solemnly,  "Meg's  more  tired 
nor  me.  P'raps  you'd  better  take  her." 

Meg  laughed,  and  what  the  rain  and  wind 
could  not  do,  Tony  managed.  Her  cheeks  grew 
rosy. 

"I'm  afraid  I  should  be  rather  heavy,  Tony 
dear,  but  it's  kind  of  you  to  think  of  it." 

She  looked  up  at  Captain  Middleton  and  smiled 
again.  What  a  kind  world  it  was!  And  really 
that  tall  young  man  was  rather  a  pleasant  per- 
son. So  it  fell  out  that  Tony  was  carried  the 
rest  of  the  way,  and  he  had  a  longer  ride  than 
little  Fay;  for  his  steed  mounted  the  staircase 
soberly,  keeping  pace  with  Meg;  they  even  paused 
to  take  breath  on  the  landings.  And  it  came 
about  that  Captain  Middleton  went  back  into 
the  flat  with  the  children,  showing  no  disposition 
to  go  away,  and  Jan  could  hardly  do  less  than 
ask  him  to  share  the  tea  she  had  laid  in  the 
dining-room. 

There  he  got  a  shock,  for  Meg  came  to  tea  in 
her  cap  and  apron. 

Out  of  doors  she  wore  a  long,  warm  coat  that 
entirely  covered  the  green  linen  frock,  and  a  lit- 
tle round  fur  hat.  This  last  was  a  concession  to 
Jan,  who  hated  the  extinguisher.  So  Meg  looked 
very  much  like  any  other  girl.  A  little  younger, 

170 


The  Wheels  of  Chance 

perhaps,  than  any  young  woman  of  twenty-five 
has  any  business  to  look,  but  pretty  in  her  queer, 
compelling  way. 

That  she  looked  even  prettier  in  her  uniform 
Captain  Middleton  would  have  been  the  first  to 
allow;  but  he  hated  it  nevertheless.  There 
seemed  to  him  something  incongruous  and  wrong 
for  a  girl  with  a  smile  like  that  to  be  anybody's 
nursemaid. 

To  be  sure,  Miss  Ross  was  a  brick,  and  this 
queer  little  servant  of  hers  called  her  by  her 
Christian  name  and  contradicted  her  flatly  twice 
in  the  course  of  tea.  Miss  Morton  certainly  did 
not  seem  to  be  downtrodden  .  .  .  but  she  wore 
a  cap  and  an  apron — a  very  becoming  Quakerish 
cap  .  .  .  without  any  strings  .  .  .  and — "it's  a 

d d  shame,"  was  the  outcome  of  all  Captain 

Middleton's  reflections. 

" Would  the  man  never  go?"  Jan  wondered, 
when  after  a  prolonged  and  hilarious  tea  he  fol- 
lowed the  enraptured  children  back  to  the  draw- 
ing-room and  did  tricks  with  the  fire-irons. 

Meg  had  departed  in  order  to  get  things  ready 
for  the  night,  and  he  hung  on  in  the  hope  that 
she  would  return.  Vain  hope;  there  was  no  sign 
of  her. 

He  told  the  children  all  about  William  Blooms- 
bury  and  exacted  promises  that  they  would  love 
him  very  much.  He  discussed,  with  many  in- 
terruptions from  Fay,  who  wanted  all  his  atten- 
tion, the  entire  countryside  round  about  Wren's 
End;  and,  at  last,  as  there  seemed  really  no 
chance  of  that  extraordinary  girl's  return,  he 

171 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

heaved  his  great  length  out  of  his  chair  and  bade 
his  hostess  a  reluctant  farewell  several  times  over. 

In  the  passage  he  caught  sight  of  Meg  going 
from  one  room  to  another  with  her  arms  full  of 
little  garments. 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  striding  towards  her.  "Good 
night,  Miss  Morton.  I  hope  we  shall  meet  again 
soon,"  and  he  held  out  his  hand. 

Meg  ignored  the  hand,  her  own  arms  were  so 
full  of  clothes:  "I'm  afraid  that's  not  likely,"  she 
said,  with  unfeeling  cheerfulness.  "We  all  go 
down  to  the  country  on  Monday." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Jolly  part  of  the  world  it 
is,  too.  I  expect  I  shall  be  thereabouts  a  good 
deal  this  summer,  my  relations  positively  swarm 
in  that  county." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Meg,  and  turned  to  go.  Jan 
stood  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  holding  the  door 
open. 

"I  say,  Miss  Morton,  you'll  try  and  like  my 
William,  won't  you?" 

"I  like  all  sensible  animals,"  was  Meg's  re- 
sponse, and  she  vanished  into  a  bedroom. 


172 


CHAPTER  XIV 

PERPLEXITIES 

P\ON'T  you  think  it  is  very  extraordinary 

-*--'  that  I  have  never  had  one  line  from  Hugo 
since  the  letter  I  got  at  Aden?"  asked  Jan. 

It  was  Friday  evening,  the  Indian  mail  was  in, 
and  there  was  a  letter  from  Peter — the  fourth 
since  her  return. 

"But  you've  heard  of  him  from  Mr.  Ledgard," 
Meg  pointed  out. 

"Only  that  he  had  gone  to  Karachi  from  Bom- 
bay just  before  Fay  died — surely  he  would  see 
papers  there.  It  seems  so  heartless  never  to 
have  written  me  a  line — I  can't  believe  it,  some- 
how, even  of  Hugo — he  must  be  ill  or  something." 

"Perhaps  he  was  ashamed  to  write.  Perhaps 
he  felt  you  would  simply  loathe  him  for  being 
the  cause  of  it  all." 

"I  did,  I  do,"  Jan  exclaimed;  "but  all  the  same 
he  is  the  children's  father,  and  he  was  her  hus- 
band— I  don't  want  anything  very  bad  to  hap- 
pen to  him." 

"It  would  simplify  things  very  much,"  Meg 
said  dreamily. 

Jan  held  up  her  hand  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow. 

"Don't,  Meg;  sometimes  I  find  myself  wishing 
something  of  the  kind,  and  I  know  it's  wrong  and 

173 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

horrible.  I  want  as  far  as  I  can  to  keep  in  the 
right  with  regard  to  Hugo,  to  give  him  no  griev- 
ance against  me.  I've  written  to  that  bank 
where  he  left  the  money,  and  asked  them  to 
forward  the  letters  if  he  has  left  any  address. 
I've  told  him  exactly  where  we  are  and  what  we 
propose  to  do.  Beyond  the  bare  facts  of  Fay's 
death — I  told  him  all  about  her  illness  as  dis- 
passionately as  I  could — I've  never  reproached 
him  or  said  anything  cruel.  You  see,  the  man  is 
down  and  out;  though  Mr.  Ledgard  always  de- 
clared he  had  any  amount  of  mysterious  wires  to 
pull.  Yet,  I  can't  help  wondering  whether  he  is 
ill  somewhere,  with  no  money  and  no  friends,  in 
some  dreadful  native  quarter." 

"What  about  the  money  in  the  bank,  then? 
Did  you  use  it?" 

Jan  blushed.  "No,  I  couldn't  bear  to  touch 
his  money  .  .  .  Mr.  Ledgard  said  it  was  idi- 
otic .  .  ." 

"So  it  was;  it  was  Fay's  money,  not  his.  For 
all  your  good  sense,  Jan,  sometimes  you're  senti- 
mental as  a  schoolgirl." 

"I  daresay  it  was  stupid,  and  I  didn't  dare  to 
tell  Mr.  Ledgard  I'd  left  it,"  Jan  said  humbly; 
"but  I  felt  that  perhaps  that  money  might  help 
him  if  things  got  very  desperate;  I  left  it  in  his 
name  and  a  letter  telling  him  I  had  done  so  ... 
I  didn't  give  him  any  money  .  .  ." 

"It  was  precisely  the  same  thing." 

"And  he  may  never  have  got  the  letter." 

"I  hope  he  hasn't." 

"Oh,  Meg,  I  do  so  hate  uncertainty.  I'd 
174 


Perplexities 

rather  know  the  worst.  I  always  have  the  fore- 
boding that  he  will  suddenly  turn  up  at  Wren's 
End  and  threaten  to  take  the  children  away  .  .  . 
and  get  money  out  of  me  that  way  .  .  .  and 
there's  none  to  spare  ..." 

"Jan,  you've  got  into  a  thoroughly  nervous, 
pessimistic  state  about  Hugo.  Why  in  the  world 
should  he  want  the  children?  They'd  be  terribly 
in  his  way,  and  wherever  he  put  them  he'd  have 
to  pay  something.  You  know  very  well  his 
people  wouldn't  keep  them  for  nothing,  even  if 
he  were  fool  enough  (for  the  sake  of  blackmailing 
you)  to  threaten  to  place  them  there.  His  sisters 
wouldn't — not  for  nothing.  What  did  Fay  say 
about  his  sisters?  I  remember  one  came  to  the 
wedding,  but  she  has  left  no  impression  on  my 
mind.  He  has  two,  hasn't  he?" 

"Yes,  but  only  one  came,  the  Blackpool  one. 
But  Fay  met  both  of  them,  for  she  spent  a  week- 
end with  each,  with  Hugo,  after  she  was  married." 

"Well,  and  what  did  she  say?" 

Jan  laughed  and  sighed:  "She  said — you  re- 
member how  Fay  could  say  the  severest  things 
in  the  softest,  gentlest  voice — that  'for  social 
purposes  they  were  impossible,  but  they  were 
doubtless  excellent  and  worthy  of  all  esteem  and 
that  they  were  exactly  suited  to  the  milieu  in 
which  they  lived."; 

"And  where  do  they  live?" 

"One  lives  at  Blackpool — she's  married  to  ... 
I  forget  exactly  what  he  is — but  it's  something  to 
do  with  letting  houses.  They're  quite  well  off 
and  alt  her  towels  had  crochet  lace  at  the  ends. 

175 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Fay  was  much  impressed  by  this,  as  it  scratched 
her  nose.  They  also  gave  you  'doylies'  at  after- 
noon tea  and  no  servant  ever  came  into  the  room 
without  knocking." 

"Any  children?" 

"Yes,  three." 

"And  the  other  sister?" 

"She  lives  at  Poulton-le-Fylde,  and  her  hus- 
band had  to  do  with  a  newspaper  syndicate. 
Quite  amusing  he  was,  Fay  says,  but  very  shaky 
as  to  the  letter  <H."] 

"Would  they  like  the  children?" 

"They  might,  for  they've  none  of  their  own, 
but  they  certainly  wouldn't  take  them  unless 
they  were  paid  for,  as  they  were  not  well  off. 
They  were  rather  down  on  the  Blackpool  sister, 
Fay  said,  for  extravagance  and  general  swank." 

"What  about  the  grandparents?" 

"In  Guernsey?  They're  quite  nice  old  peo- 
ple, I  believe,  but  curiously — of  course  I'm  quot- 
ing Fay — comatose  and  uninterested  in  things, 
'behindhand  with  the  world,'  she  said.  They 
thought  Hugo  very  wonderful,  and  seemed  rather 
afraid  of  him.  What  he  has  told  them  lately  I 
don't  know.  He  wrote  very  seldom,  they  said; 
but  I've  written  to  them,  saying  I've  got  the 
children  and  where  we  shall  be.  If  they  express 
a  wish  to  see  the  children  I'll  ask  them  to  Wren's 
End.  If,  as  would  be  quite  reasonable,  they  say 
it's  too  far  to  come — they're  old  people,  you 
know — I  suppose  one  of  us  would  need  to  take 
them  over  to  Guernsey  for  a  visit.  I  do  so  want 
to  do  the  right  thing  all  round,  and  then  they 

176 


Perplexities 

can't  say  I've  kept  the  children  away  from  their 
father's  relations." 

"Scotch  people  always  think  such  a  lot  about 
relations,"  Meg  grumbled.  "I  should  leave  them 
to  stew  in  their  own  juice.  Why  should  you 
bother  about  them  if  he  doesn't?" 

"They're  all  quite  respectable,  decent  folk,  you 
know,  though  they  mayn't  be  our  kind.  The 
father,  I  fancy,  failed  in  business  after  he  came 
back  from  India.  Fay  said  he  was  very  meek 
and  depressed  always.  I  think  she  was  glad  none 
of  them  came  to  the  wedding  except  the  Black- 
pool sister,  for  she  didn't  want  Daddie  to  see 
them.  He  thought  the  Blackpool  sister  dreadful 
(he  told  me  afterwards  that  she  'exacerbated  his 
mind  and  offended  his  eye'),  but  he  was  charm- 
ing to  her  and  never  said  a  word  to  Fay." 

"I  don't  see  much  sign  of  Hugo  and  his  people 
in  the  children." 

"We  can't  tell,  they're  so  little.  One  thing 
does  comfort  me,  they  show  no  disposition  to  tell 
lies;  but  that,  I  think,  is  because  they  have  never 
been  frightened.  You  see,  everyone  bowed  down 
before  them;  and  whatever  Indian  servants  may 
be  in  other  respects,  they  seem  to  me  extraor- 
dinarily kind  and  patient  with  children." 

"Jan,  what  are  your  views  about  the  bringing 
up  of  children?  .  .  .  You've  never  said  .  .  .  and 
I  should  like  to  know.    You  see,  we're  both"- 
here  Meg  sighed  deeply  and  looked  portentously 
grave — "in  a  position  of  awful  responsibility." 

They  were  sitting  on  each  side  of  the  hearth, 
with  their  toes  on  the  fender.  Meg  had  been 

177 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

sewing  at  an  overall  for  little  Fay,  but  at  that 
moment  she  laid  it  on  her  knee  and  ran  her  hands 
through  her  cropped  hair,  then  about  two  inches 
long  all  over  her  head,  so  that  it  stood  on  end 
in  broken  spirals  and  feathery  curls  above  her 
bright  eyes.  In  the  evening  the  uniform  was 
discarded  "by  request." 

Jan  looked  across  at  her  and  laughed. 

So  funny  and  so  earnest;  so  small,  and  yet  so 
great  with  purpose. 

"  I  don't  think  I've  any  views.  R.  L.  S.  summed 
up  the  whole  duty  of  children  ages  ago,  and  it's 
our  business  to  see  that  they  do  it — that's  all. 
Don't  you  remember: 

A  child  should  always  say  what's  true, 
And  speak  when  he  is  spoken  to, 
And  behave  mannerly  at  table: 
At  least  as  far  as  he  is  able. 

It's  no  use  to  expect  too  much,  is  it?" 

"If  you  expect  to  get  the  second  injunction 
carried  out  hi  the  case  of  your  niece  you're  a  most 
optimistic  person.  For  three  weeks  now  I've 
been  perambulating  Kensington  Gardens  with 
those  children,  and  I  have  never  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  life  entered  into  conversation  with 
so  many  strangers,  and  it's  always  she  who  be- 
gins it.  Then  complications  arise  and  I  have  to 
intervene.  I  don't  mind  policemen  and  park- 
keepers  and  roadmen,  but  I  rather  draw  the  line 
at  idly  benevolent  old  gentlemen  who  join  our 
party  and  seem  to  spend  the  whole  morning  with 
us  .  .  ." 

"But,  Meg,  that  never  happens  when  I'm  with 
178 


Perplexities 

you.     I   confess   I've   left   you   to   it   this   last 
week  .  .  ." 

"And  what  am  I  here  for  except  to  be  left  to 
it — I  don't  mean  that  anyone's  rude  or  pushing 
— but  Miss  Tancred  is  so  friendly,  and  I'm  not 
dignified  and  awe-inspiring  like  you,  you  great 
big  Jan;  and  the  poor  men  are  encouraged,  di- 
rectly and  deliberately  encouraged,  by  your  niece. 
I  never  knew  a  child  with  such  a  continual  flow 
of  conversation." 

"Poor  Meg,"  said  Jan,  "you  won't  have  much 
more  of  it.  Little  Fay  is  a  handful,  I  confess; 
but  I  always  feel  it  must  be  a  bit  hard  to  be 
hushed  continually — and  just  when  one  feels  par- 
ticularly bright  and  sparkling,  to  have  all  one's 
remarks  cut  short  ..." 

"You  needn't  pity  that  child.  No  amount  of 
hushing  has  any  effect;  you  might  just  as  well 
hush  a  blackbird  or  a  thrush.  Don't  look  so 
worried,  Jan.  Did  Mr.  Ledgard  say  anything 
about  Hugo  in  that  letter  to-night?" 

"Only  that  he  was  known  to  have  left  Karachi 
in  a  small  steamer  going  round  the  coast,  but 
after  that  nothing  more.  Mr.  Ledgard  has  a 
friend  in  the  Police,  and  even  there  they've  heard 
nothing  lately.  I  think  myself  the  Indian  Gov- 
ernment wants  to  lose  sight  of  Hugo.  He's  in- 
convenient and  disgraceful,  and  they'd  like  him 
blotted  out  as  soon  as  possible." 

"What  else  does  Mr.  Ledgard  say?  He  seems 
to  write  good  long  letters." 

"He  is  coming  home  at  the  end  of  April  for 
six  months." 

179 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"Oh  ...  then  we  shall  see  him,  I  suppose?" 

"I  hope  so." 

Meg  looked  keenly  at  Jan,  who  was  staring 
into  the  fire,  her  eyes  soft  and  dreamy;  and  al- 
most as  if  she  was  unconsciously  thinking  aloud, 
she  said:  "I  do  hope,  if  Hugo  chooses  to  turn  up, 
he'll  wait  till  Mr.  Ledgard  is  back  in  England." 

"You  think  he  could  manage  him?" 

"I  know  he  could." 

"Then  let  us  pray  for  his  return,"  said  Meg. 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  eleven. 

"Bed-time,"  said  Meg,  "but  I  must  have  just 
one  cigarette  first.  That's  what's  so  lovely 
about  being  with  you,  Jan — you  don't  mind.  Of 
course  I'd  never  do  it  before  the  children." 

"You  wouldn't  shock  them  if  you  did.  Fay 
smoked  constantly." 

Meg  lit  her  cigarette  and  clearly  showed  her 
real  enjoyment.  She  had  taken  to  it  first  when 
she  was  about  fifteen,  as  she  found  it  helped  her 
to  feel  less  hungry.  Now  it  had  become  as  much 
a  necessity  to  her  as  to  many  men,  and  the  long 
abstinence  of  term-tune  had  always  been  a  pen- 
ance. 

She  made  some  good  rings,  and,  leaning  for- 
ward to  look  through  them  at  Jan,  said:  "By  the 
way,  I  must  just  tell  you  that  for  the  last  three 
afternoons  we've  met  that  Captain  Middleton  in 
the  Gardens." 

"Well?" 

"And  he  talks  everlastingly  about  his  dog — 
that  William  Bloomsbury  creature.  I  know  all 
the  points  of  a  bull-terrier  now — 'Well-set  head 

180 


Perplexities 

gradually  tapering  to  muzzle,  which  is  very  pow- 
erful and  well-filled  up  in  front  of  the  eyes.  Nose 
large  and  black.  Teeth  dead-level  and  big'  .  .  . 
oh !  and  reams  more,  every  bit  of  him  accurately 
described." 

"I'm  a  little  afraid  of  those  teeth  so  'dead- 
level  and  big' — I  foresee  trouble." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Meg  easily.  "He's  evidently  a 
most  affectionate  brute.  That  young  man  puz- 
zles me.  He's  manifestly  devoted  to  the  dog, 
but  he's  so  sure  he'd  be  stolen  he'd  rather  have 
him  away  from  him  down  at  Wren's  End  than 
here  with  him,  to  run  that  risk." 

"Surely,"  said  Jan,  "Kensington  Gardens  are 
some  distance  from  St.  John's  Wood." 

"So  one  would  think,  but  the  rich  and  idle  take 
taxis,  and  he  seems  to  think  he  can  in  some  way 
insure  the  welfare  of  his  dog  through  the  children 
and  me." 

"And  what  about  the  old  gentlemen?  Do 
they  join  the  party  as  well?" 

"Oh,  dear  no;  no  old  gentlemen  would  dare  to 
come  within  miles  of  us  with  that  young  man  hi 
charge  of  little  Fay.  He's  like  your  Mr.  Ledgard 
— very  protective." 

"I  like  him  for  being  anxious  about  his  dog, 
but  I'm  not  quite  so  sure  that  I  approve  of  the 
means  he  takes  to  insure  its  happiness." 

"I  didn't  encourage  him  in  the  least,  I  assure 
you.  I  pointed  out  that  he  most  certainly  ought 
not  to  be  walking  about  with  a  nurse  and  two 
children.  That  the  children  without  the  nurse 
would  be  all  right,  but  that  my  being  there 

181 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

made  the  whole  thing  highly  inexpedient,  and 
infra  dig." 

"Meg!  .  .  .  you  didn't!" 

"I  did,  indeed.  There  was  no  use  mincing 
matters." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"He  said,  'Oh,  that's  all  bindles' — whatever 
that  may  mean." 

"You  mustn't  go  to  the  Gardens  alone  any 
more.  I'll  come  with  you  to-morrow,  or,  better 
still,  we'll  all  go  to  Kew  if  it's  fine." 

"I  should  be  glad,  though  I  grudge  the  fares; 
but  you  needn't  come.  I  know  how  busy  you 
are,  with  Hannah  away  and  so  much  to  see  to — 
and  what  earthly  use  am  I  if  I  can't  look  after 
the  children  without  you?" 

"You  do  look  after  the  children  without  me 
for  hours  and  hours  on  end.  I  could  never  trust 
anyone  else  as  I  do  you." 

"I  am  getting  to  manage  them,"  Meg  said 
proudly;  "but  just  to-day  I  must  tell  you — it 
was  rather  horrid — we  came  face  to  face  with  the 
Trents  in  the  Baby's  Walk.  Mrs.  Trent  and 
Lotty,  the  second  girl,  the  big,  handsome  one— 
and  he  evidently  knows  them  ..." 

"Who  evidently  knows  them?" 

"Captain  Middleton,  silly!  (I  told  you  he  was 
with  us,  talking  about  his  everlasting  dog) — and 
they  greeted  him  with  effusion,  so  he  had  to  stop. 
But  you  can  imagine  how  they  glared  at  me.  Of 
course  I  walked  on  with  Tony,  but  little  Fay 
had  his  hand — I  was  wheeling  the  go-cart  thing 
and  she  stuck  firmly  to  him,  and  I  heard  her  in- 

182 


Perplexities 

terrupting  the  conversation  all  the  time.  He 
followed  us  directly,  I'll  say  that  for  him,  but  it 
was  a  bad  moment  .  .  .  You  see,  they  had  a 
right  to  glare  .  .  ." 

"They  had  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  wish  I  got 
the  chance  of  glaring  at  them.  Daddie  saw  Mrs. 
Trent;  he  explained  everything,  and  she  said  she 
quite  understood." 

"She  would,  to  him,  he  was  so  nice  always;  but 
you  see,  Jan,  I  know  what  she  believes  and  what 
she  has  said,  and  what  she  will  probably  say  to 
Captain  Middleton  if  she  gets  the  chance." 

Meg's  voice  broke.  "Of  course  I  don't 
care » 

She  held  her  tousled  head  very  high  and  stuck 
out  her  sharp  little  chin. 

"My  dear,"  said  Jan,  "what  with  my  gregari- 
ous niece  and  my  too-attractive  nurse,  I  think 
it's  a  good  thing  we're  all  going  down  to  Wren's 
End,  where  the  garden-walls  are  high  and  the 
garden  fairly  large.  Besides  all  that,  there  will 
be  that  dog  with  the  teeth  'dead-level  and  big."1 

"Remember,"  said  Meg.  "He  treated  me  like 
a  princess  always." 


183 


CHAPTER  XV 
WREN'S  END 

TT  stands  just  beyond  the  village  of  Amber 
-•-  Guiting,  on  the  side  furthest  from  the  station, 
which  is  a  mile  from  the  village. 

"C.  C.  S.  1819"  is  carved  above  the  front  door, 
but  the  house  was  built  a  good  fifty  years  pre- 
vious to  that  date. 

One  Charles  Considine  Smith,  who  had  been  a 
shipper  of  sherry  in  Billiter  Street,  in  the  City  of 
London,  bought  it  in  that  year  from  a  Quaker 
called  Solomon  Page,  who  planted  the  yew  hedge 
that  surrounds  the  smooth  green  lawn  seen  from 
the  windows  of  the  morning-room.  There  was  a 
curious  clause  attached  to  the  title-deeds,  which 
stipulated  that  no  cats  should  be  kept  by  the 
owner  of  Wren's  End,  lest  they  should  interfere 
with  the  golden-crested  wrens  that  built  in  the 
said  yew  hedge,  or  the  brown  wrens  building  at 
the  foot  of  the  hedges  in  the  orchard.  Appended 
to  this  injunction  were  the  following  verses: 

If  aught  disturb  the  wrens  that  build, 
If  ever  little  wren  be  killed 
By  dweller  in  Wren's  End — 

Misfortunes — whence  he  shall  not  know — 
Shall  fall  on  him  like  noiseless  snow, 
And  all  his  steps  attend. 
184 


Wren's  End 

Peace  be  upon  this  house;  and  all 
That  dwell  therein  good  luck  befall, 
That  do  the  wrens  befriend. 

Charles  Considine  Smith  faithfully  kept  to  his 
agreement  regarding  the  protection  of  the  wrens, 
and  much  later  wrote  a  series  of  articles  upon 
their  habits,  which  appeared  in  the  North  Cots- 
wold  Herald.  He  seems  to  have  been  on  friendly 
terms  with  Solomon  Page,  who,  having  inherited 
a  larger  property  in  the  next  county,  removed 
thence  when  he  sold  Wren's  End. 

In  1824  Smith  married  Tranquil  Page,  daugh- 
ter of  Solomon.  She  was  then  thirty-seven  years 
old,  and,  according  to  one  of  her  husband's  dia- 
ries, "a  staid  person  like  myself."  She  was 
twenty  years  younger  than  her  husband  and 
bore  him  one  child,  a  daughter  also  named  Tran- 
quil. 

She,  however,  appears  to  have  been  less  staid 
than  her  parents,  for  she  ran  away  before  she 
was  twenty  with  a  Scottish  advocate  called  James 
Ross. 

The  Smiths  evidently  forgave  the  wilful  Tran- 
quil, for,  on  the  death  of  Charles,  she  and  her 
husband  left  Scotland  and  settled  with  her  mother 
at  Wren's  End.  She  had  two  children,  Janet,  the 
great-aunt  who  left  Jan  Wren's  End,  and  James, 
Jan's  grandfather,  who  was  sent  to  Edinburgh  for 
his  education,  and  afterwards  became  a  Writer  to 
the  Signet.  He  married  and  settled  in  Edinburgh, 
preferring  Scotland  to  England,  and  it  was  with 
his  knowledge  and  consent  that  Wren's  End  was 
left  to  his  sister  Janet. 

185 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Janet  never  married.  She  was  energetic,  pru- 
dent, and  masterful,  having  an  excellent  head 
for  business.  She  was  kind  to  her  nephews  and 
nieces  in  a  domineering  sort  of  way,  and  had 
always  a  soft  place  in  her  heart  for  Anthony, 
though  she  regarded  him  as  more  or  less  of  a 
scatter-brain.  When  she  was  nearly  eighty  she 
commanded  his  little  girls  to  visit  her.  Jan  was 
then  fourteen  and  Fay  eleven.  She  liked  them 
because  they  had  good  manners  and  were  neither 
of  them  in  the  least  afraid  of  her.  And  at  her 
death,  six  years  later,  she  left  Wren's  End  to 
Jan  absolutely — as  it  stood;  but  she  left  her 
money  to  Anthony's  elder  brother,  who  had  a 
large  family  and  was  not  particularly  well  off. 

That  year  was  a  good  artistic  year  for  Anthony, 
and  he  spent  over  five  hundred  pounds  in — as  he 
put  it — "making  Jan's  house  habitable." 

This  proved  not  a  bad  investment,  for  they 
had  let  it  every  winter  since  to  Colonel  Walcote 
for  the  hunting  season,  as  three  packs  of  hounds 
met  within  easy  reach  of  it;  and  although  the 
stabling  accommodation  at  Wren's  End  was  but 
small,  plenty  of  loose  boxes  were  always  obtain- 
able from  Farmer  Burgess  quite  near. 

Amber  Guiting  is  a  big  village,  almost  a  little 
town.  It  possesses  an  imposing  main  street 
wherein  are  several  shops,  among  them  a  station- 
er's with  a  lending  library  in  connection  with 
Mudie's;  a  really  beautiful  old  inn  with  a  court- 
yard; and  grave-looking,  dignified  houses  occu- 
pied by  the  doctor,  a  solicitor,  and  several  other 
persons  of  acknowledged  gentility. 

186 


Wren's  End 

There  were  many  "nice  places"  round  about, 
and  altogether  the  inhabitants  of  Amber  Guiting 
prided  themselves,  with  some  reason,  on  the 
social  and  aesthetic  advantages  of  their  neigh- 
bourhood. Moreover,  it  is  not  quite  three  hours 
from  Paddington.  You  catch  the  express  from 
the  junction. 

Notwithstanding  all  these  agreeable  circum- 
stances, William  Bloomsbury  was  very  lonely  and 
miserable. 

All  the  friends  he  knew  and  loved  had  gone, 
leaving  him  in  the  somewhat  stepmotherly  charge 
of  a  caretaker  from  the  village,  who  was  supposed 
to  be  getting  the  house  ready  for  its  owner.  To 
join  her  came  Hannah — having  left  her  young 
ladies  with  an  "orra-buddy"  in  the  flat.  And 
after  Hannah  came  the  caretaker-lady  did  not 
stop  long,  for  their  ideas  on  the  subject  of  cleanli- 
ness were  diametrically  opposed.  Hannah  was 
faithful  and  punctual  as  regarded  William's  meals; 
but  though  his  body  was  more  comfortable  than 
during  the  caretaker's  reign,  his  heart  was  empty 
and  hungry,  and  he  longed  ardently  for  social  in- 
tercourse and  an  occasional  friendly  pat. 

Presently  in  Hannah's  train  came  Anne  Chitt, 
a  meek  young  assistant  from  the  village,  who 
did  occasionally  gratify  William's  longing  for  a 
little  attention;  but  so  soon  as  she  began  to  pat 
him  and  say  he  was  a  good  dog,  she  was  called 
away  by  Hannah  to  sweep  or  dust  or  wash  some- 
thing. In  William's  opinion  the  whole  house 
was  a  howling  wilderness  where  pails  of  water 
easily  upset,  and  brooms  that  fell  upon  the  un- 

187 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

suspecting  with  resounding  blows  lay  ambushed 
in  unexpected  places. 

Men  and  dogs  alike  abhor  "spring-cleaning," 
and  William's  heart  died  within  him. 

There  came  a  day,  however,  when  things  were 
calmer.  The  echoing,  draughty  house  grew  still 
and  warm,  and  a  fire  was  lit  in  the  hall.  William 
lay  in  front  of  it  unmolested;  but  he  felt  dejected 
and  lonely,  and  laid  his  head  down  on  his  crossed 
paws  in  patient  melancholy. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  there  came  a  sound  of 
wheels  in  the  drive.  Hannah  and  Anne  Chitt, 
decorous  in  black  dresses  and  clean  aprons,  came 
into  the  hall  and  opened  the  front  door,  and  in 
three  minutes  William  knew  that  happier  times 
were  in  store  for  him.  The  "station-fly"  stopped 
at  the  door,  and  regardless  of  Hannah's  reprov- 
ing voice  he  rushed  out  to  welcome  the  strangers. 
Two  children,  nice  children,  who  appeared  as 
glad  to  see  him  as  he  was  to  see  them,  who  wished 
him  many  happy  returns  of  his  birthday — Wil- 
liam had  forgotten  it  was  his  birthday — and  were 
as  lavish  with  pats  and  what  little  Fay  called 
"stlokes"  as  Hannah  had  been  niggardly.  There 
were  also  two  young  ladies,  who  addressed  him 
kindly  and  seemed  pleasantly  aware  of  his  exis- 
tence, and  William  liked  young  ladies,  for  the 
three  Miss  Walcotes  had  thoroughly  spoiled  him. 
But  he  decided  to  attach  himself  most  firmly  to 
the  children  and  the  very  small  young  lady. 
Perhaps  they  would  stay.  In  his  short  experi- 
ence grown  people  had  a  cruel  way  of  disappear- 
ing There  was  that  tall  young  man  .  .  .  Wil- 

188 


William  rushed  out  to  welcome  the  strangers.     Two  .  .   . 
nice  children. 


Wren's  End 

liam  hardly  dared  let  himself  think  about  that 
tall  young  man  who  had  allowed  him  to  lie  upon 
his  bed  and  was  so  kind  and  jolly.  " Master" 
William  had  called  him.  Ah,  where  was  he? 
Perhaps  he  would  come  back  some  day.  In  the 
meantime  here  were  plenty  of  people  to  love. 
William  cheered  up. 

He  wished  to  ingratiate  himself,  and  proceeded 
to  show  off  his  one  accomplishment.  With  infi- 
nite difficulty  and  patience  the  Miss  Walcotes 
had  taught  him  to  "give  a  paw";  so  now,  on  this 
first  evening,  William  followed  the  children  about 
solemnly  offering  one  paw  and  then  the  other; 
a  performance  which  was  greeted  with  acclama- 
tion. 

When  the  children  went  to  the  bathroom  he 
somehow  got  shut  outside.  So  he  lay  down  and 
breathed  heavily  through  the  bottom  of  the  door 
and  varied  this  by  thin,  high-pitched  yelps — 
which  were  really  squeals,  and  very  extraordinary 
as  proceeding  from  such  a  large  and  heavy  dog. 

"William  wants  to  come  in,"  Tony  said.  He 
still  always  accompanied  his  sister  to  the  bath. 

Meg  was  seized  with  an  inspiration.  "I  know 
why,"  she  exclaimed.  "He  expects  to  see  little 
Fay  in  the  big  bath." 

Fay  looked  from  Meg  to  her  brother  and  from 
her  brother  to  Meg. 

Another  dismal  squeal  from  under  the  door. 

"Does  he  tluly  espect  it?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"I  think  so,"  Meg  said  gravely,  "and  we  can't 
let  him  in  if  you're  going  to  be  washed  in  the 
little  bath;  he'd  be  so  disappointed." 

189 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

The  little  bath  stood  ready  on  its  stand.  Fay 
turned  her  back  upon  it  and  went  and  looked 
over  the  edge  of  the  big  bath.  It  was  a  very  big 
bath,  white  and  beautiful,  with  innumerable  sil- 
vered handles  that  produced  sprays  and  showers 
and  waves  and  all  sorts  of  wonders.  An  extrava- 
gance of  Anthony's. 

"Will  William  come  in,  too?"  she  asked. 

"No;  he'd  make  such  a  mess;  but  he'd  love 
to  see  you.  We'll  all  bathe  William  some  other 
time." 

More  squeals  from  outside,  varied  by  dolorous 
snores. 

"Let  him  in,"  said  little  Fay.  "I'll  show  him 
me." 

Quick  as  thought  Meg  lifted  her  in,  opened  the 
door  to  the  delighted  William,  who  promptly 
stood  on  his  hind  legs,  with  his  front  paws  on  the 
bath,  and  looked  over  the  edge  at  little  Fay. 

"See  me  swim,"  she  exclaimed  proudly,  sitting 
down  in  the  water,  while  William,  with  his  tongue 
hanging  out  and  a  fond  smile  of  admiration  on 
his  foolish  countenance,  tried  to  lick  the  plump 
pink  shoulders  presented  to  his  view.  "This  is 
a  muts  nicer  baff  than  the  nasty  little  one.  I 
can't  think  what  you  bringed  it  for,  deah  Med." 

"Deah  Med"  and  Tony  nodded  gaily  to  one 
another. 

Hannah  had  made  William  sleep  in  the  scul- 
lery, which  he  detested.  She  put  his  basket 
there  and  his  blanket,  and  he  was  warm  enough, 
but  creature  comforts  matter  little  to  the  right 
kind  of  dog.  It's  human  fellowship  he  craves. 

190 


Wren's  End 

That  night  she  came  to  fetch  him  at  bed-time, 
and  he  refused  point-blank  to  go.  He  put  his 
head  on  Meg's  knee  and  gazed  at  her  with  be- 
seeching eyes  that  said  as  plainly  as  possible: 
"Don't  banish  me — where  you  go  I  go — don't 
break  my  heart  and  send  me  away  into  the 
cold." 

Perhaps  the  cigarette  smoke  that  hung  about 
Meg  gave  him  confidence.  His  master  smelt  like 
that.  And  William  went  to  bed  with  his  master. 

"D'you  think  he  might  sleep  in  the  dressing- 
room?"  Meg  asked.  "I  know  how  young  dogs 
hate  to  be  alone  at  night.  Put  his  basket  there, 
Hannah — I'll  let  him  out  and  see  to  him,  and  you 
could  get  him  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

Hannah  gave  a  sniff  of  disapproval,  but  she 
was  always  very  careful  to  do  whatever  Meg 
asked  her  at  once  and  ungrudgingly.  It  was 
partly  an  expression  of  her  extreme  disapproval  of 
the  uniform.  But  Meg  thought  it  was  prompted 
entirely  by  Hannah's  fine  feeling,  and  loved  her 
dearly  in  consequence. 

Nearly  all  the  bedrooms  at  Wren's  End  had 
dressing-rooms.  Tony  slept  in  Jan's,  with  the 
door  between  left  open.  Fay's  little  cot  was 
drawn  up  close  to  Meg's  bed.  William  and  his 
basket  occupied  the  dressing-room,  and  here,  also, 
the  door  was  left  open. 

While  Meg  undressed,  William  was  quite  still 
and  quiet,  but  when  she  knelt  down  to  say  her 
prayers  he  was  overcome  with  curiosity,  and,  get- 
ting out  of  his  basket,  lurched  over  to  her  to  see 
what  she  was  abqut.  Could  she  be  crying  that 

191 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

she  covered  her  face?  William  couldn't  bear 
people  to  cry. 

He  thrust  his  head  under  her  elbow.  She  put 
her  arm  round  his  neck  and  he  sat  perfectly  still. 

"Pray  for  your  master,  William,"  Meg  whis- 
pered. 

******** 

"I  like  to  look  at  it,"  said  Tony. 

"Oh,  London  may  be  very  gay,  but  it's  nothing 
to  the  countryside,"  sang  Meg. 

"What  nelse?"  inquired  little  Fay,  who  could 
never  be  content  with  a  mere  snatch  of  song. 

"Oh,  there's  heaps  and  heaps  of  nelse,"  Jan 
answered.  "Come  along,  chicks,  we'll  go  and 
see  everything.  This  is  home,  you  know,  where 
dear  Mummy  wanted  you  to  be." 

It  was  their  first  day  at  Wren's  End,  and  the 
weather  was  kind.  They  were  all  four  in  the 
drive,  looking  back  at  the  comfortable  stone- 
fronted  Georgian  house.  The  sun  was  shining,  a 
cheerful  April  sun  that  had  little  warmth  in  it 
but  much  tender  light;  and  this  showed  how  all 
around  the  hedges  were  getting  green ;  that  buds 
were  bursting  from  brown  twigs,  as  if  the  kind 
spring  had  covered  the  bare  trees  with  a  thin 
green  veil;  and  that  all  sorts  of  green  spears  were 
thrusting  up  in  the  garden  beds. 

Down  the  drive  they  all  four  ran,  accompanied 
by  a  joyfully  galumphing  William,  who  was  in 
such  good  spirits  that  he  occasionally  gave  vent 
to  a  solemn  deep-chested  bark. 

When  they  came  to  the  squat  grey  lodge,  there 
was  Mrs.  Earley  standing  in  her  doorway  to  wel- 

192 


Wren's  End 

come  them.  Mrs.  Earley  was  Barley's  mother, 
and  Earley  was  gardener  and  general  factotum  at 
Wren's  End.  Mrs.  Earley  looked  after  the  chick- 
ens, and  when  she  had  exchanged  the  news  with 
Jan,  and  rather  tearfully  admired  "poor  Mrs. 
Tancred's  little  'uns,"  she  escorted  them  all  to 
the  orchard  to  see  the  cocks  and  hens  and  chick- 
ens. Then  they  visited  the  stable,  where  Placid, 
the  pony,  was  sole  occupant.  In  former  years 
Placid  had  been  kept  for  the  girls  to  drive  in  the 
governess-cart  and  to  pull  the  heavy  lawn-mower 
over  the  lawns.  And  Hannah  had  been  wont  to 
drive  him  into  Amesberrow  every  Sunday,  that 
she  might  attend  the  Presbyterian  church  there. 
She  put  him  up  at  a  livery-stable  near  her  church 
and  always  paid  for  him  herself.  Anthony  Ross 
usually  had  hired  a  motor  for  the  summer  months. 
Now  they  would  depend  entirely  on  Placid  and  a 
couple  of  bicycles  for  getting  about.  All  round 
the  walled  garden  did  they  go,  and  Meg  played 
horses  with  the  children  up  and  down  the  broad 
paths  white  Jan  discussed  vegetables  with  Earley. 
And  last  of  all  they  went  to  the  back  door  to 
ask  Hannah  for  milk  and  scones,  for  the  keen, 
fresh  air  had  made  them  all  hungry. 

Refreshed  and  very  crumby,  they  were  starting 
out  again  when  Hannah  laid  a  detaining  hand  on 
Jan's  arm:  "Could  you  speak  a  minute,  Miss 
Jan?" 

The  children  and  Meg  gone,  Hannah  led  the 
way  into  the  kitchen  with  an  air  of  great  mys- 
tery; but  she  did  not  shut  the  doors,  as  Anne 
Chitt  was  busy  upstairs. 

193 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"What  is  it,  Hannah?"  Jan  asked  nervously, 
for  she  saw  that  this  summons  portended  some- 
thing serious. 

"  It's  about  Miss  Morton  I  want  to  speak,  Miss 
Jan.  I  was  in  hopes  she'd  never  wear  they  play- 
acting claes  down  here  ..."  (when  Hannah  was 
deeply  earnest  she  always  became  very  Scotch), 
"but  it  seems  I  hoped  in  vain.  And  what  am  I 
to  say  to  ither  folk  when  they  ask  me  about  her?" 

"What  is  there  to  say,  Hannah,  except  that  she 
is  my  dear  friend,  and  by  her  own  wish  is  acting 
as  nurse  to  my  sister's  children?" 

"I  ken  that;  I'm  no  sayin'  a  word  against  that; 
but  first  of  all  she  goes  and  crops  her  hair — fine 
hah*  she  had  too,  though  an  awfu-like  colour— 
and  not  content  with  flying  in  the  face  of  Provi- 
dence that  way,  she  must  needs  dress  like  a  ser- 
vant. And  no  a  weiss-like  servant,  either,  but 
one  o'  they  besoms  ye  see  on  the  hoardings  in 
London  wha  act  in  plays.  Haven't  I  seen  the 
pictures  mysel'?  'The  Quaker  Gerrl,'  or  some 
such  buddy." 

"Oh,  I  assure  you,  Hannah,  Miss  Morton  hi 
no  way  resembles  those  ladies,  and  I  can't  see 
that  it's  any  business  of  ours  what  she  wears. 
You  know  that  she  certainly  does  what  she  has 
undertaken  to  do  in  the  best  way  possible." 

"  I'm  no  saying  a  word  against  her  wi'  the  chil- 
dren, and  there  never  was  a  young  lady  who  gave 
less  trouble,  save  in  the  way  o'  tobacco  ash,  and 
was  more  ready  to  help — but  yon  haverals  is  very 
difficult  to  explain.  You  may  understand,  Miss 
Jan.  I  may  say  I  understand — though  I  don't— 

194 


Wren's  End 

but  who's  to  make  the  like  o'  that  Anne  Chitt 
understand?  Only  this  morning  she  keeps  on  at 
me  wi'  her  questions  like  the  clapper  o'  a  bell. 
'Is  she  a  servant?  If  she's  no,  why  does  she 
wear  servants'  claes?  Why  does  she  have  hair 
like  a  boy?  Has  she  had  a  fever  or  something 
wrong  wi'  her  heid?  Is  she  one  of  they  suffra- 
gette buddies  and  been  in  prison?' — till  I  was 
fair  deeved  and  bade  the  lassie  hold  her  tongue. 
But  so  it  will  be  wherever  Miss  Morton  goes  in 
they  fantastic  claes.  Now,  Miss  Jan,  tell  me  the 
honest  truth — did  you  ever  see  a  self-respecting, 
respectable  servant  hi  the  like  o'  yon?  Does  she 
look  like  any  servant  you've  ever  heard  tell  of 
out  of  a  stage-play?" 

"Not  a  bit,  Hannah;  she  looks  exactly  like  her- 
self, and  therefore  not  in  the  least  like  any  other 
person.  Don't  you  worry.  Miss  Morton  re- 
quires no  explanation.  All  we  must  do  is  to  see 
that  she  doesn't  overwork  herself." 

"Then  ye' 11  no  speak  to  her,  Miss  Jan?" 

"Not  I,  Hannah.  Why  should  I  dictate  to  her 
as  to  what  she  wears  ?  She  doesn't  dictate  to  me." 

This  was  not  strictly  true,  for  Meg  was  most 
interfering  in  the  matter  of  Jan's  clothes.  Han- 
nah shook  her  head.  "I  thocht  it  my  duty  to 
speak,  Miss  Jan,  and  I'll  say  no  more.  But  it's 
sheer  defiance  o'  her  Maker  to  crop  her  heid  and 
to  clothe  herself  in  whim-whams,  when  she  could 
be  dressed  like  a  lady;  and  I'm  real  vexed  she 
should  make  such  an  object  of  herself  when  she 
might  just  be  quite  unnoticeable,  sae  wee  and 
shelpit  as  she  is." 

195 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Jan,  "that  Miss  Morton  will 
never  be  quite  unnoticeable,  whatever  she  may 
wear.  But  don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any  more. 
You  understand,  don't  you,  Hannah?" 

When  Jan's  voice  took  that  tone  Hannah  knew 
that  further  argument  was  unavailing. 

Jan  turned  to  go,  and  saw  Tony  waiting  for 
her  in  the  open  doorway.  Neither  of  them  had 
either  heard  or  seen  him  come. 

Quite  silently  he  took  her  hand  and  did  not 
speak  till  they  were  well  away  from  the  house. 
Meg  and  little  Fay  were  nowhere  in  sight.  Jan 
wondered  how  much  he  had  heard. 

"She's  a  very  proud  cook,  isn't  she?"  he  said 
presently. 

"She's  a  very  old  servant,"  Jan  explained, 
"who  has  known  me  all  my  life." 

"If,"  said  Tony,  as  though  after  deep  thought, 
"she  gets  very  chubbelsome,  you  send  for  me. 
Then  I  will  go  to  her  and  say  (Jao!"  Tony 
followed  this  up  by  some  fluent  Hindustani  which, 
had  Jan  but  known  it,  seriously  reflected  on  the 
character  of  Hannah's  female  ancestry.  "I'll  say 
'Jod,'"  he  went  on.  "I'll  say  it  several  times 
very  loud,  and  point  to  the  door.  Then  she'll 
roll  up  her  bedding,  and  you'll  give  her  money 
and  her  chits,  and  she  will  depart." 

They  had  reached  a  seat.  On  this  Jan  sank, 
for  the  vision  of  Tony  pointing  majestically  down 
the  drive  while  little  Hannah  staggered  into  the 
distance  under  a  rolled-up  mattress,  was  too  much 
for  her. 

"But  I  don't  want  her  to  go,"  she  gasped.  "I 
love  her  dearly." 

196 


Wren's   End 

"She  should  not  speak  to  you  like  that;  she 
scolded  you,"  he  said  firmly.  "She  is  a  ser- 
vant .  .  .  She  is  a  servant?"  he  added  doubt- 
fully. 

"How  much  did  you  hear  of  what  she  said? 
Did  you  understand?" 

"I  came  back  directly  to  fetch  you,  I  thought 
she  sounded  cross.  Mummy  was  afraid  when 
people  were  cross;  she  liked  me  to  be  with  her.  I 
thought  you  would  like  me  to  be  with  you.  If 
she  was  very  rude  I  could  beat  her.  I  beat  the 
boy — not  Peter's  boy,  our  boy — he  was  rude  to 
Mummy.  He  did  not  dare  to  touch  me  because 
I  am  a  sahib  ...  I  will  beat  Hannah  if  you  like." 

Tony  stood  in  front  of  Jan,  very  earnest,  with 
an  exceedingly  pink  nose,  for  the  wind  was  keen. 
He  had  never  before  said  so  much  at  one  tune. 

"Shall  I  go  back  and  beat  her?"  he  asked 
again. 

"Certainly  not,"  Jan  cried,  clutching  Tony 
lest  he  should  fly  off  there  and  then.  "We  don't 
do  such  things  here  at  home.  Nobody  is  beaten, 
ever.  I'm  sure  Peter  never  beats  his  servants." 

"No,"  Tony  allowed.  "A  big  sahib  must  not 
strike  a  servant,  but  I  can,  and  I  do  if  they  are 
rude.  She  was  rude  about  Meg." 

"She  didn't  mean  to  be  rude." 

"She  found  fault  with  her  clothes  and  her  hah*. 
She  is  a  very  proud  and  impudent  cook." 

"Tony  dear,  you  really  don't  understand.  She 
wasn't  a  bit  rude.  She  was  afraid  other  people 
might  mistake  Meg  for  a  servant.  She  was  all 
for  Meg — truly  she  was." 

"She  scolded  you,"  he  rejoined  obstinately. 
197 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"Not  really,  Tony;  she  didn't  mean  to  scold." 

Tony  looked  very  hard  at  Jan. 

In  silence  they  stared  at  one  another  for  quite 
a  minute.  Jan  got  up  off  the  seat. 

"Let's  go  and  find  the  others,"  she  said. 

"She  is  a  very  proud  cook,"  Tony  remarked 
once  more. 

Jan  sighed. 

That  night  while  she  was  getting  ready  for  bed 
Tony  woke  up.  His  cot  was  placed  so  that  he 
could  see  into  Jan's  room,  and  the  door  between 
was  always  left  open.  She  was  standing  before 
the  dressing-table,  taking  down  her  hah*. 

Unlike  the  bedrooms  at  the  flat,  the  room  was 
not  cold  though  both  the  windows  were  open. 
Wren's  End  was  never  cold,  though  always  fresh, 
for  one  of  Anthony's  earliest  improvements  had 
been  a  boiler-house  and  central  heating,  with 
radiators  set  under  the  windows,  so  that  they 
could  always  stand  open. 

Jan  had  not  put  on  her  dressing-gown,  and  her 
night-dress  had  rather  short,  loose  sleeves  that 
fell  back  from  her  arms  as  she  raised  them. 

He  watched  the  white  arm  wielding  the  brush 
with  great  pleasure;  he  decided  he  liked  to  look 
at  it. 

"Auntie  Jan!" 

She  turned  and  flung  her  hah1  back  from  her 
face  in  a  great  silver  cloud. 

"You  awake,  sonny!     Did  I  make  a  noise?" 

"No,  I  just  woke.  Auntie  Jan,  will  Daddie 
ever  come  here?" 

198 


Wren's   End 

"I  expect  so." 

"Well,  listen.  If  he  does,  he  shan't  take  your 
things,  your  pretty  twinkly  things.  I  won't  let 
him." 

Jan  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

"He  took  Mummy's.  I  saw  him;  I  couldn't 
stop  him,  I  was  so  little.  But  she  said — she  said 
it  twice  before  she  went  away  from  that  last  bun- 
galow— she  said:  'Take  care  of  Auntie  Jan,  Tony; 
don't  let  Daddie  take  her  things.'  So  I  won't." 

Tony  was  sitting  up.  His  room  was  all  in 
darkness;  two  candles  were  lit  on  Jan's  dressing- 
table.  He  could  see  her,  but  she  couldn't  see 
him. 

She  came  to  him,  stooped  over  him,  and  laid 
her  cheek  against  his  so  that  they  were  both 
veiled  with  her  hair.  "Darling,  I  don't  think 
poor  Daddie  would  want  to  take  my  things.  You 
must  try  not  to  think  hardly  of  Daddie." 

Tony  parted  the  veil  of  hair  with  a  gentle  hand 
so  that  they  could  both  see  the  candles. 

"You  don't  know  my  Daddie  .  .  .  much,"  he 
said,  "do  you?" 

Jan  shuddered. 

"I  saw  him,"  he  went  on  in  his  queer  little 
unemotional  voice.  "I  saw  him  take  all  her 
pretty  twinkly  things;  and  her  silver  boxes.  I'm 
glad  I  sleep  here." 

"Did  she  mind  much?"  Jan  whispered. 

"I  don't  know.  She  didn't  see  him  take  them, 
only  me.  She  hadn't  come  to  bed.  She  never 
said  nothing  to  me — only  about  you." 

"I  don't  expect,"  Jan  made  a  great  effort  to 
199 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

speak  naturally,  "that  Daddie  would  care  about 
my  things  .  .  .  It's  different,  you  see." 

"I'm  glad  I  sleep  here,"  Tony  repeated,  "and 
there's  William  only  just  across  the  passage." 


200 


CHAPTER  XVI 

> 
"THE  BLUDGEONINGS  OF  CHANCE" 

'"PHEY  had  been  at  Wren's  End  nearly  three 
-•-  weeks,  and  sometimes  Jan  wondered  if  she 
appeared  to  Tony  as  unlike  her  own  conception 
of  herself  as  Tony's  of  his  father  was  unlike  what 
she  had  pictured  him. 

She  knew  Hugo  Tancred  to  be  dishonest, 
shifty,  and  wholly  devoid  of  a  sense  of  honour, 
but  she  had  up  till  quite  lately  always  thought 
of  him  as  possessing  a  lazy  sort  of  good-nature. 

Tony  was  changing  this  view. 

He  was  not  yet  at  all  talkative,  but  every  now 
and  then  when  he  was  alone  with  her  he  became 
frank  and  communicative,  as  reserved  people 
often  will  when  suddenly  they  let  themselves  go. 
And  his  very  simplicity  gave  force  to  his  revela- 
tions. 

During  their  last  year  together  hi  India  it  was 
evident  that  downright  antagonism  had  existed 
between  Hugo  Tancred  and  his  little  son.  Tony 
had  weighed  his  father  and  found  him  wanting; 
and  it  was  clear  that  he  had  tried  to  insert  his 
small  personality  as  a  buffer  between  his  father 
and  mother. 

Jan  talked  constantly  to  the  children  of  their 
mother.  Her  portraits,  Anthony's  paintings  and 

201 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

sketches,  were  all  over  the  house,  in  every  variety 
of  happy  pose.  One  of  the  best  was  hung  at  the 
foot  of  Tony's  cot.  The  gentle  blue  eyes  seemed 
to  follow  him  in  wistful  benediction,  and  alone  in 
bed  at  night  he  often  thought  of  her,  and  of  his 
home  in  India.  It  was,  then,  quite  natural  that 
he  should  talk  of  them  to  this  Auntie  Jan  who 
had  evidently  loved  his  mother  well;  and  from 
Tony  Jan  learned  a  good  deal  more  about  her 
brother-in-law  than  she  had  ever  heard  from  his 
wife. 

Tony  loved  to  potter  about  with  his  aunt  in 
the  garden.  She  worked  really  hard,  for  there 
was  much  to  do,  and  he  tried  his  best  to  assist, 
often  being  a  very  great  hindrance;  but  she  nevef 
sent  him  away,  for  she  desired  above  all  things 
to  gam  his  confidence. 

One  day  after  a  hard  half-hour's  weeding,  when 
Tony  had  wasted  much  tune  by  pulling  up  sev- 
eral sorts  of  the  wrong  thing,  Jan  felt  her  temper 
getting  edgy,  so  they  sat  down  to  rest  upon  one 
of  the  many  convenient  seats  to  be  found  at 
Wren's  End.  Anthony  hated  a  garden  where 
you  couldn't  sit  comfortably  and  smoke,  where- 
soever the  prospect  was  pleasing. 

Tony  sat  down  too,  looking  almost  rosy  after 
his  labours. 

He  didn't  sit  close  and  cuddly,  as  little  Fay 
would  have  done,  but  right  at  the  other  end  of 
the  seat,  where  he  could  stare  at  her.  Every  day 
was  bringing  Tony  more  surely  to  the  conclusion 
that  "he  liked  to  look  at"  his  aunt. 

"You  like  Meg,  don't  you?"  he  said. 
202 


"The  Bludgeonings  of  Chance" 

"No,"  Jan  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  like  her. 
I  love  her;  which  is  quite  a  different  thing." 

"Do  you  like  people  and  love  them?" 

"I  like  some  people — a  great  many  people — 
then  there  are  others,  not  so  many,  that  I  love 
— you're  one  of  them." 

"Is  Fay?" 

"Certainly,  dear  little  Fay." 

"And  Peter?" 

For  a  moment  Jan  hesitated.  With  heightened 
colour  she  met  Tony's  grave,  searching  eyes. 
Above  everything  she  desired  to  be  always  true 
and  sincere  with  him,  that  he  might,  as  on  that 
first  night  in  England,  feel  that  he  "believed" 
her.  "I  have  every  reason  to  love  Mr.  Ledgard," 
she  said  slowly:  "he  was  so  wonderfully  kind  to 
all  of  us."  She  was  determined  to  be  loyal  to 
Peter  with  poor  Fay's  children.  Jan  hated  in- 
gratitude. To  have  said  she  only  liked  Peter 
must  have  given  Tony  the  impression  that  she 
was  both  forgetful  and  ungrateful.  She  would 
not  risk  that  even  though  she  might  risk  misun- 
derstanding of  another  kind  if  he  ever  repeated 
her  words  to  anybody  else. 

Her  heart  beat  rather  faster  than  was  comfort- 
able, and  she  was  thankful  that  she  and  Tony 
were  alone. 

"Who  do  you  like?"  he  asked. 

"Nearly  everybody;  the  people  in  the  village, 
our  good  neighbours  .  .  .  Can't  you  see  the  dif- 
ference yourself?  Now,  you  love  your  dear 
Mummy  and  you  like  .  .  .  say,  William " 

"No,"  Tony  said  firmly,  "I  love  William.  I 
203 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

don't  think,"  he  went  on,  "I  like  people  .  .  . 
much.  Either  I  love  them  like  you  said,  or  I 
don't  care  about  them  at  all  ...  or  I  hate  them." 

"That,"  said  Jan,  "is  a  mistake.  It's  no  use 
to  hate  people." 

"But  if  you  feel  like  it  ...  I  hate  people  if 
they  cheat  me." 

"But  who  on  earth  would  cheat  you?  What 
do  you  mean?" 

"Once,"  said  Tony,  and  by  the  monotonous, 
detached  tone  of  his  voice  Jan  knew  he  was  going 
to  talk  about  his  father,  "my  Daddie  asked  me 
if  I'd  like  to  see  smoke  come  out  of  his  ears  .  .  . 
an'  he  said:  'Put  your  hand  here  on  me  and 
watch  very  careful."1  Tony  pointed  to  Jan's 
chest.  "I  put  my  hand  there  and  I  watched  and 
watched  an'  he  hurt  me  with  the  end  of  his  cigar. 
There's  the  mark !"  He  held  out  a  grubby  little 
hand,  back  uppermost,  for  Jan's  inspection,  and 
there,  sure  enough,  was  the  little  round  white 
scar. 

"And  what  did  you  do?"  she  asked. 

"I  bit  him." 

"Oh,  Tony,  how  dreadful!" 

"I  shouldn't  of  minded  so  much  if  he'd  really 
done  it — the  smoke  out  of  his  ears,  I  mean;  but 
not  one  teeniest  little  puff  came.  I  watched  so 
careful  .  .  .  He  cheated  me." 

Jan  said  nothing.  What  could  she  say?  Hot 
anger  burned  hi  her  heart  against  Hugo.  She 
could  have  bitten  him  herself. 

"Peter  was  there,"  Tony  went  on,  "and  Peter 
said  it  served  him  right." 

204 


"The  Bludgeonings  of  Chance" 

"Yes,"  said  Jan,  grasping  at  this  straw,  "but 
what  did  Peter  say  to  you?" 

"He  said,  'Sahibs  don't  cry  and  sahibs  don't 
bite/  and  if  I  was  a  sahib  I  mustn't  do  it,  so  I 
don't.  I  don't  bite  people  often." 

"I  should  hope  not;  besides,  you  know,  some- 
times quite  good-natured  people  will  do  things  in 
fun,  never  thinking  it  will  hurt." 

Tony  gazed  gloomily  at  Jan.  "He  cheated 
me,"  he  repeated.  "He  said  he  would  make  it 
come  out  of  his  ears,  and  it  didn't.  He  didn't 
like  me — that's  why." 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  say  that,  and  be 
so  unforgiving.  I  expect  Daddie  forgot  all  about 
your  biting  him  directly,  and  yet  you  remember 
what  he  did  after  this  long  tune." 

Poor  Jan  did  try  so  hard  to  be  fair. 

"I  wasn't  afraid  of  him,"  Tony  went  on,  as 
though  he  hadn't  heard,  "not  really.  Mummy 
was.  She  was  drefully  afraid.  He  said  he'd 
whip  me  because  I  was  so  surly,  and  she  was 
afraid  he  would  ...  I  knew  he  wouldn't,  not  un- 
less he  could  do  it  some  cheaty  way,  and  you 
can't  whip  people  that  way.  But  it  frightened 
Mummy.  She  used  to  send  me  away  when  he 
came  .  .  ." 

Tony  paused  and  knitted  his  brows,  then  sud- 
denly he  smiled.  "But  I  always  came  back  very 
quick,  because  I  knew  she  wanted  me,  and  I 
liked  to  look  at  him.  He  liked  Fay,  I  suppose 
he  liked  to  look  at  her,  so  do  I.  Nobody  wants 
to  look  at  me  .  .  .  much  .  .  .  except  Mummy." 

"I  do,"  Jan  said  hastily.  "I  like  to  look  at 
205 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

you  just  every  bit  as  much  as  I  like  to  look  at 
Fay.  I  think  you  care  rather  too  much  what 
people  look  tike,  Tony." 

"It  does  matter  a  lot,"  Tony  said  obstinately. 

"Other  things  matter  much  more.  Courage 
and  kindness  and  truth  and  honesty.  Look  at 
Mr.  Ledgard — he's  not  what  you'd  call  a  beauti- 
ful person,  and  yet  I'm  sure  we  all  like  to  look 
at  him." 

"Sometimes  you  say  Peter,  and  sometimes  Mr. 
Ledgard.  Why?" 

Again  Jan's  heart  gave  that  queer,  uncomfort- 
able jump.  She  certainly  always  thought  of  him 
as  Peter.  Quite  unconsciously  she  occasionally 
spoke  of  him  as  Peter.  Meg  had  observed  this, 
but,  unlike  Tony,  made  no  remark. 

' '  Why  ? ' '  Tony  repeated. 

"I  suppose,"  Jan  mumbled  feebly,  "it's  because 
I  hear  the  rest  of  you  do  it.  I've  no  sort  of  right 
to." 

"Auntie  Jan,"  Tony  said  earnestly.  "What  is 
a  devil?" 

"I  haven't  the  remotest  idea,  Tony,"  Jan  re- 
plied, with  the  utmost  sincerity. 

"It  isn't  anything  very  nice,  is  it,  or  nice  to 
look  at?" 

"It  might  be,"  said  Jan,  with  Scottish  cau- 
tion. 

"Daddie  used  to  call  me  a  surly  little  devil- 
when  I  used  to  come  back  because  Mummy  was 
frightened  .  .  .  she  was  always  frightened  when 
he  talked  about  money,  and  he  did  it  a  lot  ... 
When  he  saw  me,  he  would  say:  'Wot  you  do- 

206 


"The  Bludgeonings  of  Chance" 

ing  here,  you  surly  little  devil — listening,  eh?" 
Tony's  youthful  voice  took  on  such  a  snarl  that 
Jan  positively  jumped,  and  put  out  her  hand 
to  stop  him.     "'Ill  give  you  somefin  to  listen 
to  .  .  ." 

"Tony,  Tony,  couldn't  you  try  to  forget  all 
that?" 

Tony  shook  his  head.  "No!  I  shall  never 
forget  it,  because,  you  see,  it's  all  mixed  up  with 
Mummy  so,  and  you  said" — here  Tony  held  up 
an  accusing  small  finger  at  Jan — "you  said  I  was 
never  to  forget  her,  not  the  least  little  bit." 

"I  know  I  did,"  Jan  owned,  and  fell  to  ponder- 
ing what  was  best  to  be  done  about  these  mem- 
ories. Absently  she  dug  her  hoe  into  the  ground, 
making  ruts  in  the  gravel,  while  Tony  watched 
her  solemnly. 

"Then  why,"  he  went  on,  "do  you  not  want 
me  to  remember  Daddie?" 

"Because,"  said  Jan,  "everything  you  seem  to 
remember  sounds  so  unkind." 

"Well,  I  can't  help  that,"  Tony  answered. 

Jan  arose  from  the  seat.  "If  we  sit  idling  here 
all  afternoon,"  she  remarked  severely,  "we  shall 
never  get  that  border  weeded  for  Earley." 

The  afternoon  post  came  in  at  four,  and  when 
Jan  went  hi  there  were  several  letters  for  her  on 
the  hall-table,  spread  out  by  Hannah  in  a  neat 
row,  one  above  the  other.  It  was  Saturday,  and 
the  Indian  mail  was  in.  There  was  one  from 
Peter,  but  it  was  another  letter  that  Jan  seized 
first,  turning  it  over  and  looking  at  the  post- 
mark, which  was  remarkably  clear.  She  knew 

207 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

the  excellent  handwriting  well,  though  she  had 
seen  it  comparatively  seldom. 

It  was  Hugo  Tancred's;  and  the  post-mark 
was  Port  Said.  She  opened  it  with  hands  that 
trembled,  and  it  said: 

"Mr  DEAR  JAN, 

"In  case  other  letters  have  miscarried,  which 
is  quite  possible  while  I  was  up  country,  let  me 
assure  you  how  grateful  I  am  for  all  you  did  for 
my  poor  wife  and  the  children — and  for  me  in 
letting  me  know  so  faithfully  what  your  move- 
ments have  been.  I  sent  to  the  bank  for  your 
letters  while  passing  tbiough  Bombay  recently, 
and  but  for  your  kindness  in  allowing  the  money 
I  had  left  for  my  wife's  use  to  remain  to  my 
credit,  I  should  have  been  unable  to  leave  India, 
for  things  have  gone  sadly  against  me,  and  the 
world  is  only  too  ready  to  turn  its  back  upon  a 
broken  man. 

"When  I  saw  by  the  notice  in  the  papers  that 
my  beloved  wife  was  no  more,  I  realised  that  for 
me  the  lamp  is  shattered  and  the  light  of  my  life 
extinguished.  All  that  remains  to  me  is  to  make 
the  best  of  my  poor  remnant  of  existence  for  the 
sake  of  my  children. 

"We  will  talk  over  plans  when  we  meet.  I 
hope  to  be  in  England  in  about  another  month, 
perhaps  sooner,  and  we  will  consult  together  as 
to  what  is  best  to  be  done. 

"I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  possible  to  find  a 
good  and  cheap  preparatory  school  where  Tony 
can  be  safely  bestowed  for  the  present,  and  one 

208 


"The  Bludgeonings  of  Chance" 

of  my  sisters  would  probably  take  my  precious 
little  Fay,  if  you  find  it  inconvenient  to  have  her 
with  you.  A  boy  is  always  better  at  school  as 
soon  as  possible,  and  I  have  strong  views  as  to 
the  best  methods  of  education.  I  never  for  a 
moment  forget  my  responsibilities  towards  my 
children  and  the  necessity  for  a  father's  supreme 
authority. 

"You  may  be  sure  that,  in  so  far  as  you  make 
it  possible  for  me  to  do  so,  I  will  fall  in  with 
your  wishes  regarding  them  hi  every  way. 

"It  will  not  be  worth  your  while  writing  to 
me  here,  as  my  plans  are  uncertain.  I  will  try 
to  give  you  notice  of  my  arrival,  but  may  reach 
you  before  my  next  letter. 

"Yours  affectionately, 

"HUGO  TANCKED." 

Still  as  a  statue  sat  Jan.  From  the  garden 
came  the  cheerful  chirruping  of  birds  and  con- 
stant, eager  questioning  of  Earley  by  the  children. 
Earley's  slow  Gloucestershire  speech  rumbled  on 
in  muffled  obbligato  to  the  higher,  carrying,  little 
voices. 

The  whirr  of  a  sewing-machine  came  from  the 
morning-room,  now  the  day-nursery,  where  Meg 
was1  busy  with  frocks  for  little  Fay. 

In  a  distant  pantry  somebody  was  clinking  tea- 
cups. Jan  shivered,  though  the  air  from  the 
open  window  was  only  fresh,  not  cold.  At  that 
moment  she  knew  exactly  how  an  animal  feels 
when  caught  in  a  trap.  Hugo  Tancred's  letter 
was  the  trap,  and  she  was  in  it.  With  the  ex- 

209 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

ception  of  the  lie  about  other  letters — Jan  was 
perfectly  sure  he  had  written  no  other  letters— 
and  the  stereotyped  phrases  about  shattered 
lamps  and  the  wife  who  was  "no  more/'  the  let- 
ter was  one  long  menace — scarcely  veiled.  That 
sentence,  "in  so  far  as  you  make  it  possible  for 
me  to  do  so,  I  will  fall  in  with  your  wishes  regard- 
ing them  hi  every  way,"  simply  meant  that  if 
Jan  was  to  keep  the  children  she  must  let  Hugo 
make  ducks  and  drakes  of  her  money;  and  if  he 
took  her  money,  how  could  she  do  what  she 
ought  for  the  children? 

And  he  was  at  Port  Said;  only  a  week's  journey. 

Why  had  she  left  that  money  in  Bombay? 
Why  had  she  not  listened  to  Peter?  Sometimes 
she  had  thought  that  Peter  held  rather  a  cyni- 
cally low  view  of  his  fellow-creatures — some  of 
his  fellow-creatures.  Surely  no  one  could  be  all 
bad?  Jan  had  hoped  great  things  of  adversity 
for  Hugo  Tancred.  Peter  indulged  in  no  such 
pleasant  illusions,  and  said  so.  "Schoolgirl  sen- 
timentality" Meg  had  called  it,  and  so  it  was. 
"No  doubt  it  will  be  possible  to  find  some  cheap 
preparatory  school  for  Tony." 

Would  he  try  to  steal  Tony? 

From  the  charitable  mood  that  hopeth  all 
things  Jan  suddenly  veered  to  a  belief  in  all 
things  evil  of  her  brother-in-law.  At  that  mo- 
ment she  felt  him  capable  of  murdering  the  child 
and  throwing  his  little  body  down  a  well,  as  they 
do  in  India. 

Again  she  shivered. 

What  was  she  to  do? 

210 


"The  Bludgeonings  of  Chance" 

So  helpless,  so  unprotected;  so  absolutely  at 
his  mercy  because  she  loved  the  children.  "Never 
let  him  blackmail  you,"  Peter  had  said.  "Stand 
up  to  him  always,  and  he'll  probably  crumple 
up." 

Suddenly,  as  though  someone  had  opened  shut- 
ters in  a  pitch-dark  room,  letting  in  the  blessed 
light,  Jan  remembered  there  was  also  a  letter 
from  Peter. 

She  crossed  the  hall  to  get  it,  though  her  legs 
shook  under  her  and  her  knees  were  as  water. 

She  felt  she  couldn't  get  back  to  the  window- 
seat,  so  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  gate-table  and 
opened  the  letter. 

A  very  short  letter,  only  one  side  of  a  page. 

"DEAR  Miss  Ross, 

"This  is  the  last  mail  for  a  bit,  for  I  come 
myself  by  the  next,  the  Macedonia.  You  may 
catch  me  at  Aden,  but  certainly  a  note  will  get 
me  at  Marseilles,  if  you  are  kind  enough  to  write. 
Tancred  has  been  back  in  Bombay  and  gone 
again  in  one  of  the  smaller  home-going  boats. 
Where  he  got  the  money  to  go  I  can't  think,  for 
from  many  sources  lately  I've  heard  that  his  vari- 
ous ventures  have  been  far  from  prosperous,  and 
no  one  will  trust  him  with  a  rupee. 

"So  look  out  for  blackmail,  and  be  firm,  mind. 

"I  go  to  my  aunt  in  Artillery  Mansions  on 
arrival.    When  may  I  run  down  to  see  you  all? 
"Yours  always  sincerely, 

"PETER  LEDGARD." 


211 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THOUGH  AN  HOST  SHOULD  ENCAMP  AGAINST  ME 


flap  of  the  gate-leg  table  creaked  under 
Jan's  weight,  but  she  dug  her  heels  into 
the  rug  and  balanced,  for  she  felt  incapable  of 
moving. 

Peter  was  coming  home;  if  the  worst  came  to 
the  worst  he  would  deal  with  Hugo,  and  a  respite 
would  be  gained.  But  Peter  would  go  out  to 
India  again  and  Hugo  would  not.  The  whole 
miserable  business  would  be  repeated  —  and  how 
could  she  continue  to  worry  Peter  with  her  affairs  ? 
What  claim  had  she  upon  him?  As  though  she 
were  some  stranger  seeing  it  for  the  first  time, 
Jan  looked  round  the  square,  comfortable  hall. 
She  saw  it  with  new  eyes  sharpened  by  apprehen- 
sion; yet  everything  was  solidly  the  same. 

The  floor  with  its  draught-board  pattern  of 
large,  square,  black  and  white  stones;  the  old 
dark  chairs;  the  high  bookcases  at  each  side  of 
the  hearth;  the  wide  staircase  with  its  spacious, 
windowed  turning  and  shallow  steps,  so  easily 
traversed  by  little  feet;  the  whole  steeped  in  that 
atmosphere  of  friendly  comfort  that  kind  old 
houses  get  and  keep. 

Such  a  good  place  to  be  young  in. 

Such  a  happy  place,  so  safe  and  sheltered  and 
pleasant. 

212 


"Though  an  Host  Should  Encamp" 

Outside  the  window  a  wren  was  calling  to  his 
mate  with  a  note  that  sounded  just  like  a  faint 
kiss;  such  a  tender  little  song. 

The  swing  door  was  opened  noisily  and  Anne 
Chitt  appeared  bearing  the  nursery  tea-tray,  de- 
posited it  in  the  nursery,  opened  the  front  door, 
thumped  on  the  gong  and  vanished  again.  Meg 
came  out  from  the  nursery  with  two  pairs  of 
small  slippers  in  her  hand:  " Where  are  my  chil- 
dren? I  left  little  Fay  with  Earley  while  I  fin- 
ished the  overalls;  he's  a  most  efficient  under- 
nurse — I  suppose  you  left  Tony  with  him  too. 
Such  a  lot  of  letters  for  you.  Did  you  get  your 
mail?  I  heard  from  both  the  boys.  Ah,  sensi- 
ble Earley's  taking  them  round  to  the  back  door. 
Where's  William's  duster?  Hannah  does  make 
such  a  fuss  about  paw-marks."  And  Meg,  too, 
vanished  through  the  swing  door. 

Slowly  Jan  dragged  herself  off  the  table,  gath- 
ered up  her  unread  letters,  and  went  into  the 
nursery.  She  felt  as  though  she  were  dreadfully 
asleep  and  couldn't  awake  to  realise  the  whole- 
some everyday  world  around  her. 

Vaguely  she  stared  round  the  room,  the  most 
charming  room  in  Wren's  End.  Panelled  in 
wood  long  since  painted  white,  with  two  delight- 
ful rounded  corner  cupboards,  it  gave  straight 
on  to  the  wrens'  sunk  lawn  from  a  big  French 
window  with  steps,  an  anachronism  added  by 
Miss  Janet  Ross.  Five  years  ago  Anthony  had 
brought  a  beautiful  iron  gate  from  Venice  that 
fitted  into  the  archway,  cut  through  the  yew 
hedge  and  leading  to  the  drive.  Jan  had  given 

213 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

this  room  to  the  children  because  in  summer  they 
could  spend  the  whole  day  in  its  green-walled 
garden,  quite  safe  and  shut  in  from  every  possi- 
bility of  mischief.  A  sun-dial  was  in  the  centre, 
and  in  one  corner  a  fat  stone  cherub  upheld  a 
bath  for  the  birds.  Daffodils  were  in  bloom  on 
the  banks,  and  one  small  single  tulip  of  brilliant 
red.  Jan  went  out  and  stood  on  the  top  step. 

Long  immunity  from  menace  of  any  kind  had 
made  all  sorts  of  little  birds  extraordinarily  bold 
and  friendly.  Even  the  usually  shy  and  furtive 
golden-crested  wrens  fussed  in  and  out  under  the 
yew  hedge  quite  regardless  of  Jan. 

Through  an  open  window  overhead  came  the 
sound  of  cheerful  high  voices,  and  little  Fay 
started  to  sing  at  the  top  of  her  strong  treble: 

Thlee  mice  went  into  a  hole  to  spin, 
Puss  came  by,  and  puss  peeped  in; 
What  are  you  doing,  my  littoo  old  men? 
We're  weaving  coats  for  gentoomen. 

"Is  that  what  I've  been  doing?"  thought  Jan. 
"Weaving  coats  of  many  colours  out  of  happy 
dreams?"  Were  she  and  the  children  the  mice, 
she  wondered. 

Marauding  cats  had  been  kept  away  from 
Wren's  End  for  over  a  hundred  years.  "The 
little  wrens  that  build"  had  been  safe  enough. 
But  what  of  these  poor  human  nestlings  ? 

"Shall  I  come  and  help  loo  to  wind  up  loo 
thleds?"  sang  little  Fay.  "Oh,  no,  Missis  Pussy, 
you'd  bite  off  our  heads!"  And  Tony  joined  in 
with  a  shout:  "Oh,  no,  Missis  Pussy,  you'd  bite 
off  our  heads." 

214 


The  voices  died  away,  the  children  were  com- 
ing downstairs. 

Jan  drank  three  cups  of  tea  and  crumbled  one 
piece  of  bread  and  butter  on  her  plate.  The  rest 
of  the  party  were  hungry  and  full  of  adventures. 
Before  she  joined  Earley  little  Fay  had  been  to 
the  village  with  Meg  to  buy  tape,  and  she  had  a 
great  deal  to  say  about  this  expedition.  Meg 
saw  that  something  was  troubling  Jan,  and  won- 
dered if  Mr.  Ledgard  had  given  her  fresh  news  of 
Hugo.  But  Meg  never  asked  questions  or  wor- 
ried people.  She  chattered  to  the  children,  and 
immediately  after  tea  carried  them  off  for  the 
usual  washing  of  hands. 

Jan  went  out  into  the  hall;  the  door  was  open 
and  the  sunny  spring  evening  called  to  her.  When 
she  was  miserable  she  always  wanted  to  walk,  and 
she  walked  now;  swiftly  down  the  drive  she  went 
and  out  along  the  road  till  she  came  to  the  church, 
which  stood  at  the  end  of  the  village  nearest  to 
Wren's  End. 

She  turned  into  the  churchyard,  and  up  the 
broad  pathway  between  the  graves  to  the  west 
door. 

Near  the  door  was  a  square  headstone  mark- 
ing the  grave  of  Charles  Considine  Smith;  and 
she  paused  beside  it  to  read  once  more  the  some- 
what strange  inscription. 

Under  his  name  and  age,  cut  deep  hi  the  moss- 
grown  stone,  were  the  words:  "Though  an  host 
should  encamp  against  me,  my  heart  shall  not  fear." 

Often  before  Jan  had  wondered  what  could 
have  caused  Tranquil,  his  wife,  to  choose  so 

215 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

strenuous  an  epitaph.  Tranquil,  who  had  never 
stirred  twenty  miles  from  the  place  where  she 
was  born;  whose  very  name,  so  far  as  they  could 
gather,  exemplified  her  life. 

What  secret  menace  had  threatened  this  "staid 
person,"  this  prosperous  shipper  of  sherry  who, 
apparently,  had  spent  the  evening  of  his  life  in 
observing  the  habits  of  wrens. 

Why  should  his  gentle  wife  have  thus  com- 
memorated his  fighting  spirit? 

Be  the  reason  what  it  might,  Jan  felt  vaguely 
comforted.  There  was  triumph  as  well  as  trust 
in  the  words.  Whatever  it  was  that  had  threat- 
ened him,  he  had  stood  up  to  it.  His  wife  knew 
this  and  was  proud. 

Jan  tried  the  heavy  oak  door  and  it  yielded, 
and  from  the  soft  mildness  of  the  spring  evening, 
so  full  of  happy  sounds  of  innocent  life,  she  passed 
into  the  grey  and  sacred  silence  of  the  church. 

It  was  cold  in  the  beautiful  old  fourteenth-cen- 
tury church,  with  that  pervading  smell  of  badly- 
burning  wood  that  is  so  often  found  in  country 
churches  till  all  attempt  at  heating  ceases  for  the 
summer.  But  nothing  could  mar  the  nobility  of 
its  austerely  lovely  architecture;  the  indefinable, 
exquisite  grace  that  soothes  and  penetrates. 

She  went  and  knelt  in  the  Wren's  End  pew 
where  Charles  Considine  Smith's  vast  prayer- 
book  still  stood  on  the  book-board.  And  even  as 
in  the  Bombay  Cathedral  she  had  prayed  that 
strength  might  be  given  to  her  to  walk  in  the 
Way,  so  now  she  prayed  for  courage  and  a  quiet, 
steadfast  mind. 

216 


"Though  an  Host  Should  Encamp" 

Her  head  was  bowed  and  buried  in  her  hands: 
11  My  heart  shall  not  fear,1'  she  whispered;  but  she 
knew  that  it  did  fear,  and  fear  grievously. 

The  tense  silence  was  broken  by  an  odd,  fitful, 
pattering  sound;  but  Jan,  absorbed  in  her  petition 
for  the  courage  she  could  not  feel,  heard  nothing. 

Something  clumsy,  warm,  and  panting  pushed 
against  her,  and  she  uncovered  her  face  and 
looked  down  upon  William  trying  to  thrust  his 
head  under  her  arm  and  join  in  her  devotions. 

And  William  became  a  misty  blur,  for  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears;  he  looked  so  anxious  and 
foolish  and  kind  with  his  tongue  hanging  out  and 
his  absurd,  puzzled  expression. 

He  was  puzzled.  Part  of  the  usual  ritual  had 
been  omitted. 

She  ought,  by  all  known  precedents,  to  have 
put  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  have  admonished 
him  to  "pray  for  his  Master."  But  she  did 
nothing  of  the  kind,  only  patted  him,  with  no 
sort  of  invitation  to  join  in  her  orisons. 

William  was  sure  something  was  wrong  some- 
where. 

Then  Jan  saw  Tony  sitting  at  the  far  end  of 
the  seat,  hatless,  coatless,  in  his  indoor  strap 
shoes;  and  he  was  regarding  her  with  grave,  un- 
derstanding eyes. 

In  a  moment  she  was  back  in  the  present  and 
vividly  alive  to  the  fact  that  here  was  chilly, 
delicate  Tony  out  after  tea,  without  a  coat  and 
sitting  in  an  ice-cold  church. 

She  rose  from  her  knees,  much  to  William's 
satisfaction,  who  did  not  care  for  religious  ser- 

217 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

vices  in  which  he  might  not  take  an  active  part. 
He  trotted  out  of  the  pew  and  Jan  followed  him, 
stooping  to  kiss  Tony  as  she  passed. 

"It's  too  cold  for  you  here,  dear,"  she  whis- 
pered; "let  us  come  out." 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  Tony  took  it,  and 
together  they  passed  down  the  aisle  and  into  the 
warmer  air  outside. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  here?"  she  asked, 
as  they  hurried  into  the  road. 

"I  saw  you  going  down  the  drive  from  the 
bathroom  window,  and  so  I  runned  after  you, 
and  William  came  too." 

"But  what  made  you  come  after  me?" 

"Because  I  thought  you  looked  frightened,  and 
I  didn't  like  it;  you  looked  like  Mummy  did 
sometimes." 

No  one  who  has  seen  fear  stamped  upon  a 
woman's  face  ever  forgets  it.  Tony  had  watched 
his  aunt  all  tea-tune,  and  this  quite  new  expres- 
sion troubled  him.  Mummy  had  always  seemed 
to  want  hun  when  she  looked  like  that;  perhaps 
Auntie  Jan  would  want  him  too.  The  moment 
his  hands  were  dried  he  had  rushed  past  Meg  and 
down  the  stairs  with  William  in  his  wake.  Meg 
had  not  tried  to  stop  him,  for  she,  too,  realised 
that  something  worried  Jan,  and  she  knew  that 
already  there  had  arisen  an  almost  unconscious 
entente  between  these  two.  But  she  had  no  idea 
that  he  had  gone  out  of  doors.  She  dressed  little 
Fay  and  took  her  out  to  the  garden,  thinking 
that  Tony  and  Jan  were  probably  in  the  nursery, 
and  she  was  careful  not  to  disturb  them. 

218 


"Though  an  Host  Should  Encamp" 

"Are  you  cold,  Tony?"  Jan  asked  anxiously, 
walking  so  fast  that  Tony  had  almost  to  run  to 
keep  up  with  her. 

"No,  not  very;  it's  a  nice  coldness  rather,  don't 
you  think?" 

"Tony,  will  you  tell  me — when  Daddie  was 
angry  with  you,  were  you  never  frightened?" 

Tony  pulled  at  her  hand  to  make  her  go  more 
slowly.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  used  to  feel  fright- 
ened inside,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him  know  it,  and 
then — it  was  funny — but  quite  sunn'ly  I  wasn't 
frightened  any  more.  You  try  it." 

"You  mean,"  Jan  asked  earnestly,  "that  if 
you  don't  let  anyone  else  know  you  are  fright- 
ened, you  cease  to  be  frightened?" 

"Something  like  that,"  Tony  said;  "it  just 
happens." 


219 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MEG  AND   CAPTAIN   MIDDLETON 

MEG  had  worked  hard  and  faithfully  ever 
since  Ayah  left.  Very  soon  after  she  took 
over  the  children  entirely  she  discovered  that, 
however  naughty  and  tiresome  they  were  in  many 
respects,  they  were  quick-witted  and  easily  in- 
terested. And  she  decided  there  and  then  that 
to  keep  them  good  she  must  keep  them  well 
amused,  and  it  acted  like  a  charm. 

She  had  the  somewhat  rare  power  of  surround- 
ing quite  ordinary  everyday  proceedings  with  a 
halo  of  romance,  so  that  the  children's  day  de- 
veloped into  a  series  of  entrancing  adventures. 

With  Meg,  enthusiastic  make-believe  had  never 
wholly  given  place  to  common  sense.  Through- 
out the  long,  hard  days  of  her  childhood  and 
early  apprenticeship  to  a  rather  unkindly  world 
she  had  pretended  joyously,  and  invented  for 
herself  all  sorts  of  imaginary  pleasures  to  take 
the  place  of  those  tangible  ones  denied  to  her. 
She  had  kept  the  width  and  wistfulness  of  the 
child's  horizon  with  a  good  deal  of  the  child's 
finality  and  love  of  detail;  so  that  she  was  as 
responsive  to  the  drama  of  common  things  as 
the  children  themselves. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  the  daily  donning  of 
the  uniform  was  in  very  truth  symbolic  and  in- 

220 


Meg  and  Captain  Middleton 

spiring;  and  once  the  muslin  cap  was  adjusted, 
she  felt  herself  magically  surrounded  by  the  at- 
mosphere most  conducive  to  the  production  of 
the  Perfect  Nurse. 

For  Tony  and  little  Fay  getting  up  and  going 
to  bed  resolved  themselves  into  feats  of  delicious 
dexterity  that  custom  could  not  stale.  The  un- 
derneaths  of  tables  were  caves  and  dungeons, 
chairs  became  chariots  at  will,  and  every  night 
little  Fay  waved  a  diminutive  pocket-handker- 
chief to  Tony  from  the  deck  of  an  ocean-going 
P.  and  0. 

The  daily  walks,  especially  since  they  came  to 
Wren's  End,  were  filled  with  hopeful  possibilities. 
And  to  hunt  for  eggs  with  Mrs.  Earley,  or  gather 
vegetables  with  her  son,  partook  of  the  nature 
of  a  high  and  solemn  quest.  It  was  here  Meg 
showed  real  genius.  She  drew  all  the  household 
into  her  net  of  interest.  The  children  poked  their 
busy  fingers  into  everybody's  pies,  and  even  stern 
Hannah  was  compelled,  quite  unconsciously,  to 
contribute  her  share  in  the  opulent  happiness  of 
their  little  world. 

But  it  took  it  out  of  Meg. 

For  weeks  she  had  been  on  the  alert  to  pre- 
vent storms  and  tempests.  Now  that  the  chil- 
dren's barometer  seemed  at  "set  fair"  she  sud- 
denly felt  very  tired. 

Jan  had  been  watching  her,  and  on  that  par- 
ticular Sunday,  had  she  been  able  to  catch  Meg 
before  she  got  up,  Jan  would  have  dressed  the 
children  and  kept  her  in  bed.  But  Meg  was  too 
nimble  for  her,  washed  and  dressed  her  charges, 

221 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

and  appeared  at  breakfast  looking  a  "wispy 
wraith." 

She  had  slept  badly;  a  habit  formed  in  her 
under-nourished  youth  which  she  found  hard  to 
break;  and  she  had,  in  consequence,  been  sitting 
up  in  bed  at  five  in  the  morning  to  make  button- 
holes in  garden  smocks  for  Tony. 

This  would  have  enraged  Jan  had  she  but 
known  it.  But  Meg,  frank  and  honest  as  the 
day  in  most  things,  was,  at  times,  curiously  secre- 
tive; and  so  far  had  entirely  eluded  Jan's  vigi- 
lance. By  the  time  Anne  Chitt  came  with  the 
awakening  tea  there  wasn't  a  vestige  of  smock, 
needles,  or  cotton  to  be  seen,  and  so  far  lynx-eyed 
little  Fay  had  never  awoke  in  tune  to  catch  her 
at  it. 

This  morning,  however,  Jan  exerted  her  au- 
thority. She  slung  the  hammock  between  two 
trees  hi  the  sunniest  part  of  the  garden;  she 
wrapped  Meg  in  her  own  fur  coat,  which  was  far 
too  big  for  Meg;  covered  her  with  a  particularly 
soft,  warm  rug,  gave  her  a  book,  a  sun-umbrella, 
and  her  cigarette  case;  and  forbade  her  to  move 
till  lunch-tune  unless  it  rained. 

Then  she  took  the  two  children  and  William 
into  Squire  Walcote's  woods  for  the  morning  and 
Meg  fell  fast  asleep. 

Warm  with  the  double  glow  that  came  from 
being  wrapped  in  Jan's  coat  because  Jan  loved 
her;  lulled  by  the  songs  of  birds  and  a  soft,  shy 
wind  that  ruffled  the  short  hair  about  her  fore- 
head, little  Meg  was  supremely  happy.  To  be 
tired,  to  be  made  to  rest,  to  be  kissed  and  tucked 

222 


Meg  and  Captain  Middleton 

in  and  sternly  commanded  to  stay  where  she  was 
till  she  was  fetched — all  this,  so  commonplace  to 
cherished,  cared-for  folk,  seemed  quite  wonderful 
to  Meg,  and  she  snuggled  down  among  the 
cushions  in  blissful  content. 

Meanwhile,  on  that  same  Sunday  morning, 
Captain  Middleton,  at  Amber  Guiting  Manor, 
was  trying  to  screw  his  courage  up  to  the  an- 
nouncement that  he  did  not  intend  to  accompany 
his  aunt  and  uncle  to  church.  Lady  Mary  Wai- 
cote  was  his  mother's  only  sister,  and  Mrs.  Wai- 
cote,  wife  of  Jan's  tenant,  was  one  of  his  father's, 
so  that  he  spoke  quite  truly  when  he  told  Meg  he 
had  "stacks  of  relations  down  at  Amber  Guiting." 

Colonel  Walcote  was  much  better  off  than  his 
elder  brother,  the  squire  of  Amber  Guiting,  for 
he  benefited  by  the  Middleton  money. 

Miles  Middleton's  father  was  the  originator  of 
"Middleton's  Made  Starch,"  which  was  used 
everywhere  and  was  supposed  to  be  superior  to 
all  other  starches.  Why  "Made"  scoffers  could 
never  understand,  for  it  required  precisely  the 
same  treatment  as  other  starches.  But  the  Brit- 
ish Public  believed  in  it,  the  British  Public  also 
bought  it  in  large  quantities,  and  George  Middle- 
ton,  son  of  Mutton-Pie  Middleton,  a  well-to-do 
confectioner  in  Doncaster,  became  an  exceedingly 
rich  man.  He  did  not  marry  till  he  was  forty, 
and  then  he  married  "family,"  for  Lady  Agnes 
Keills,  younger  daughter  of  Lord  Glencarse,  had 
a  long  pedigree  and  no  dower  at  all.  She  was  a 
good  wife  to  him,  gentle,  upright,  and  always 
affectionate.  She  adored  their  only  child,  Miles, 

223 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

and  died  quite  suddenly  from  heart  failure,  just 
after  that  cheerful  youth  had  joined  at  Wool- 
wich. George  Middleton  died  some  three  years 
later,  leaving  his  money  absolutely  to  his  son, 
who  came  of  age  at  twenty-five.  And,  so  far, 
Miles  had  justified  his  father's  faith  in  him,  for 
he  had  never  done  anything  very  foolish,  and  a 
certain  strain  of  Yorkshire  shrewdness  prevented 
him  from  committing  any  wild  extravagance. 

He  was  generous,  kindly,  and  keen  on  his  pro- 
fession, and  he  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty-two 
without  ever  having  felt  any  overwhelming  de- 
sire to  marry;  though  it  was  pretty  well  known 
that  considerable  efforts  to  marry  him  suitably 
had  been  made  by  both  mothers  and  daughters. 

The  beautiful  and  level-headed  young  ladies  of 
musical  comedy  had  failed  to  land  this  consider- 
able fish,  angled  they  never  so  skilfully;  though 
he  frankly  enjoyed  their  amusing  society  and  was 
quite  liberal,  though  not  lavish,  in  the  way  of 
presents. 

Young  women  of  his  own  rank  were  pleasant  to 
him,  their  mothers  cordial,  and  no  difficulty  was 
ever  put  in  the  way  of  his  enjoying  then*  society. 
But  he  was  not  very  susceptible.  Deep  in  his 
heart,  in  some  dim,  unacknowledged  corner,  there 
lay  a  humble,  homely  desire  that  he  might  feel  a 
great  deal  more  strongly  than  he  had  felt  yet, 
when  the  tune  and  the  woman  came  to  him. 

Never,  until  Meg  smiled  at  him  when  he  offered 
to  carry  little  Fay  up  that  long  staircase,  had  the 
thought  of  a  girl  thoroughly  obsessed  him;  and  it 
is  possible  that  even  after  their  meetings  in  Ken- 

224 


Meg  and  Captain  Middleton 

sington  Gardens  her  image  might  gradually  have 
faded  from  his  mind,  had  it  not  occurred  to  Mrs. 
Trent  to  interfere. 

He  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  Trents  while 
hunting  with  the  Pytchley  two  winters  ago. 
Lotty  was  a  fearless  rider  and  what  men  called  "a 
real  good  sort."  At  one  tune  it  had  sometimes 
crossed  Captain  Middleton's  mind  that  Lotty 
wouldn't  make  half  a  bad  wife  for  a  Horse  Gun- 
ner, but  somehow  it  had  always  stopped  at  the 
idea,  and  when  he  didn't  see  Lotty  he  never 
thought  about  her  at  all. 

Now  that  he  no  longer  saw  Meg  he  thought 
about  her  all  day  and  far  into  the  night.  His 
sensations  were  so  new,  so  disturbing  and  un- 
pleasant, his  life  was  so  disorganised  and  upset, 
that  he  asked  himself  in  varying  degrees  of  ever- 
accumulating  irritation:  "What  the  deuce  was 
the  matter?" 

Then  Mrs.  Trent  asked  him  to  luncheon. 

She  was  staying  with  her  daughters  at  the 
Kensington  Palace  Hotel,  and  they  had  a  suite 
of  rooms.  Lotty  and  her  sister  flew  away  before 
coffee  was  served,  as  they  were  going  to  a  matinee, 
and  Miles  was  left  tete-a-tete  with  Mrs.  Trent. 

She  was  most  motherly  and  kind. 

Just  as  he  was  wondering  whether  he  might 
now  decently  take  leave  of  her,  she  said:  "Cap- 
tain Middleton,  I'm  going  to  take  a  great  liberty 
and  venture  to  say  something  to  you  that  per- 
haps you  will  resent  .  .  .  but  I  feel  I  must  do  it 
because  your  mother  was  such  a  dear  friend  of 


225 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

This  was  a  piece  of  information  for  Miles,  who 
knew  perfectly  well  that  Lady  Agnes  Middleton's 
acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Trent  had  been  of  the 
slightest.  However,  he  bowed  and  looked  ex- 
pectant. 

"I  saw  you  the  other  day  walking  with  Miss 
Morton  in  Kensington  Gardens;  apparently  she  is 
now  hi  charge  of  somebody's  children.  May  I 
ask  if  you  have  known  her  long?" 

Mrs.  Trent  looked  searchingly  at  Miles,  and 
there  was  an  inflection  on  the  "long"  that  he  felt 
was  in  some  way  insulting  to  Meg,  and  he  stif- 
fened all  over. 

"Before  I  answer  that  question,  Mrs.  Trent, 
may  I  ask  why  you  should  want  to  know?" 

"My  dear  boy,  I  see  perfectly  well  that  it  must 
seem  impertinent  curiosity  on  my  part.  But  I 
assure  you  my  motive  for  asking  is  quite  justi- 
fiable. Will  you  try  not  to  feel  irritated  and  be- 
lieve that  what  I  am  doing,  I  am  doing  for  the 
best?" 

"I  have  not  known  Miss  Morton  very  long; 
why?" 

"Do  you  know  the  people  she  is  living  with  at 
present?" 

Again  that  curious  inflection  on  the  "present." 

"Oh,  yes,  and  so  do  my  people;  they  think  all 
the  world  of  her." 

"Of  Miss  Morton?"  Shocked  astonishment 
was  in  Mrs.  Trent's  voice. 

"I  was  not  speaking  of  Miss  Morton  just  then, 
but  of  the  lady  she  is  with.  I've  no  doubt, 
though,"  said  Miles  stoutly,  "they'd  think  just 

226 


Meg  and  Captain  Middleton 

the  same  of  Miss  Morton  if  they  knew  her.  They 
may  know  her,  too;  it's  just  a  chance  we've  never 
discussed  her." 

"It  is  very  difficult  and  painful  for  me  to  say 
what  I  have  got  to  say  .  .  .  but  if  Miss  Morton 
is  in  charge  of  the  children  of  a  friend  of  your 
family,  I  think  you  ought  to  know  she  is  not  a 
suitable  person  to  be  anything  of  the  kind." 

"I  say!"  Miles  exclaimed,  "that's  a  pretty 
stiff  thing  to  say  about  any  girl;  a  dangerous 
thing  to  say;  especially  about  one  who  seems  to 
need  to  earn  her  own  living." 

"I  know  it  is;  I  hate  to  say  it  ...  but  it 
seemed  to  me  the  other  day — I  hope  I  was  mis- 
taken— that  you  were  rather  .  .  .  attracted,  and 
knowing  what  I  do  I  felt  I  must  speak,  must  warn 
you." 

Miles  got  up.  He  seemed  to  tower  above  the 
table  and  dwarf  the  whole  room.  "I'd  rather 
not  hear  any  more,  Mrs.  Trent,  please.  It  seems 
too  beastly  mean  somehow  for  me  to  sit  here  and 
listen  to  scandal  about  a  poor  little  unprotected 
girl  who  works  hard  and  faithfully — mind  you, 
I've  seen  her  with  those  children,  and  she's  per- 
fectly wonderful.  Don't  you  see  yourself  how  I 
can't  do  it?" 

Mrs.  Trent  sat  on  where  she  was  and  smiled  at 
Miles,  slowly  shaking  her  head.  "Sit  down,  my 
dear  boy.  Your  feelings  do  you  credit;  but  we 
mustn't  be  sentimental,  and  facts  are  facts.  I' 
have  every  reason  to  know  what  I'm  talking 
about,  for  some  years  ago  Miss  Morton  was  in 
my  service." 

227 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Miles  did  not  sit  down.  He  stood  where  he 
was,  glowering  down  at  Mrs.  Trent. 

"That  doesn't  brand  her,  does  it?"  he  asked. 

Still  smiling  maternally  at  him,  Mrs.  Trent 
continued:  "She  left  my  service  when  she  ran 
away  with  Mr.  Walter  Brooke — you  know  him,  I 
think?  Disgraceful  though  it  was,  I  must  say 
this  of  him,  that  he  never  made  any  concealment 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  a  married  man.  She  did 
it  with  her  eyes  open." 

"If,"  Miles  growled,  "all  this  happened  'some 
years  ago'  she  must  have  been  about  twelve  at 
the  time,  and  Brooke  ought  to  have  been  hounded 
out  of  society  long  ago." 

"I  needn't  say  that  we  have  cut  him  ever  since. 
She  was,  I  believe,  about  nineteen  at  the  time. 
She  did  not  remain  with  him,  but  you  can  under- 
stand that,  naturally,  I  don't  want  you  to  get 
entangled  with  a  girl  of  that  sort." 

Miles  picked  up  his  hat  and  stick.  "I  wish  you 
hadn't  told  me,"  he  groaned.  "I  don't  think  a 
bit  less  highly  of  her,  but  you've  made  me  feel 
such  a  low-down  brute,  I  can't  bear  it.  Good- 
bye— I've  no  doubt  you  did  it  for  the  best  .  .  . 
but "  And  Miles  fairly  ran  from  the  room. 

Mrs.  Trent  drummed  with  her  fingers  on  the 
table  and  looked  thoughtful.  "It  was  quite  time 
somebody  interfered,"  she  reflected.  And  then 
she  remembered  with  annoyance  that  she  had 
not  found  out  the  name  of  Meg's  employer. 

Miles  strode  through  Kensington  Gore  and  past 
Knightsbridge,  when  he  turned  down  Sloane 
Street  till  he  came  to  a  fencing  school  he  fre- 

228 


Meg  and  Captain  Middleton 

quented.  Here  he  went  in  and  had  a  strenuous 
half-hour  with  the  instructor,  but  nothing  served 
to  restore  his  peace  of  mind.  He  was  angry  and 
hurt  and  horribly  worried.  If  it  was  true,  if  the 
whole  miserable  story  was  true,  then  he  knew 
that  something  had  been  taken  from  him.  Some- 
thing he  had  cherished  in  that  dun,  secret  corner 
of  his  heart.  Its  truth  or  untruth  did  not  affect 
his  feeling  for  Meg.  But  if  it  were  true,  then  he 
had  irretrievably  lost  something  intangible,  yet 
precious.  Young  men  like  Miles  never  mention 
ideals,  but  that's  not  to  say  that  in  some  very 
hidden  place  they  don't  exist,  like  buried  treasure. 

All  the  shrewd  Yorkshire  strain  hi  him  shouted 
that  he  must  set  this  doubt  at  rest.  That  what- 
ever was  to  be  his  action  in  the  future  he  must 
know  and  face  the  truth.  All  the  delicacy,  the 
fine  feeling,  the  sensitiveness  he  got  from  his 
mother,  made  him  loathe  any  investigation  of 
the  kind,  and  his  racial  instincts  battled  together 
and  made  him  very  miserable  indeed. 

When  he  left  the  fencing  school,  he  turned  into 
Hyde  Park.  The  Row  was  beginning  to  fill,  and 
suddenly  he  came  upon  his  second  cousin,  Lady 
Penelope  Pottinger,  sitting  all  alone  on  a  green 
chair  with  another  empty  one  beside  it.  Miles 
dropped  into  the  empty  chair.  He  liked  Lady 
Pen.  She  was  always  downright  and  sometimes 
very  amusing.  Moreover  she  took  an  intelligent 
interest  in  dogs,  and  knew  Amber  Guiting  and  its 
inhabitants.  So  Miles  dexterously  led  the  con- 
versation round  to  Jan  and  Wren's  End. 

Lady  Pen  was  looking  very  beautiful  that 
229 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

afternoon.  She  wore  a  broad-leaved  hat  which 
did  not  wholly  conceal  her  glorious  hair.  Hair 
the  same  colour  as  certain  short  feathery  rings 
that  framed  a  pale,  pathetic  little  face  that 
haunted  him. 

"Talking  of  Amber  Guiting,"  he  said,  "did 
you  ever  come  across  a  Miss  Morton  down  there  ? 
A  friend  of  Miss  Ross." 

Lady  Pen  turned  and  looked  hard  at  him.  "  Oh 
dear,  yes;  she's  rather  a  pal  of  mine.  I  knew  her 
long  before  I  met  her  at  the  Ross's.  Why,  I 
knew  her  when  she  was  companion  at  the  Trents, 
poor  little  devil." 

"Did  she  have  a  bad  time  there?  Weren't 
they  nice  to  her?" 

"At  first  they  were  nice  enough,  but  after- 
wards it  was  rotten.  Clever  little  thing  she  is, 
but  poor  as  a  rat.  What  do  you  know  about 
her?" 

Again  Lady  Pen  looked  hard  at  Miles.  'She 
was  wondering  whether  Meg  had  ever  given 
away  the  reason  for  that  short  hair  of  hers. 

"Oh,  I've  met  her  just  casually,  you  know, 
with  Miss  Ross.  She  strikes  me  as  a  .  .  .  rather 
unusual  sort  of  girl." 

"Ever  mention  me?" 

"No,  never  that  I  can  remember.  I  haven't 
seen  much  of  her,  you  know." 

"Well,  my  son,  the  less  you  see  of  her  the  bet- 
ter, for  her,  I  should  say.  She's  a  clever,  indus- 
trious, good  little  thing,  but  she's  not  in  your 
row.  After  all,  these  workin'  girls  have  their 
feelin's." 

230 


Meg  and  Captain  Middleton 

"I  don't  fancy  Miss  Morton  is  at  all  the  sus- 
ceptible idiot  you  appear  to  think  her.  It's  other 
people's  feelings  I  should  be  afraid  of,  not  hers." 

"Oh,  I  grant  you  she's  attractive  enough  to 
some  folks.  Artists,  for  instance,  rave  over  her. 
At  least,  Anthony  Ross  did.  Queer  chap,  that; 
would  never  paint  me.  Now  can  you  understand 
any  man  in  his  senses  refusin'  to  paint  me?" 

"It  seems  odd,  certainly." 

"He  painted  her,  for  nothin'  of  course,  over 
an'  over  again  .  .  .  just  because  he  liked  doin' 
it.  Odd  chap  he  was,  but  very  takin'.  You 
couldn't  dislike  him,  even  when  he  refused  to 
paint  you.  Awful  swank  though,  wasn't  it?" 

"Were  his  pictures  of  Miss  Morton — sold?" 

"Some  were,  I  believe;  but  Janet  Ross  has  got 
a  lot  of  'em  down  at  Wren's  End.  She  always 
puts  away  most  of  her  father's  paintin's  when 
she  lets  the  house.  But  you  take  my  advice, 
Miley,  my  son:  you  keep  clear  of  that  little 
girl." 

This  was  on  Thursday,  and,  of  course,  after 
two  warnings  in  one  afternoon,  Miles  went  down 
to  Amber  Guiting  on  Saturday  night. 

"Aunt  Mary,  it's  such  a  lovely  morning,  should 
you  mind  very  much  if  I  go  for  a  stroll  in  the 
woods — or  slack  about  in  the  fresh  air,  instead  of 
going  to  church?" 

At  the  word  "stroll"  he  had  seen  an  interested 
expression  lighten  up  Squire  Walcote's  face,  and 
the  last  thing  he  wanted  was  his  uncle's  society 
for  the  whole  morning. 

"I  don't  feel  up  to  much  exercise,"  Miles  went 
231 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

on,  trying  to  look  exhausted  and  failing  egre- 
giously.  "I've  had  rather  a  hard  week  in  town. 
I'll  give  the  vicar  a  turn  in  the  evening,  I  will 
truly." 

Lady  Mary  smiled  indulgently  on  this  large 
young  man,  who  certainly  looked  far  from  deli- 
cate. But  only  a  hard-hearted  woman  could 
have  pointed  this  out  at  such  a  moment,  and 
where  her  nephew  was  concerned  Lady  Mary's 
heart  was  all  kindly  affection.  So  she  let  him  off 
church. 

Miles  carried  out  a  pile  of  books  to  a  seat  in 
the  garden  and  appeared  to  be  settled  down  to 
a  studious  morning.  He  waved  a  languid  hand 
to  his  aunt  and  uncle  as  they  started  for  church, 
and  the  moment  they  were  out  of  sight  laid  down 
his  book  and  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head. 

The  vicar  of  Amber  Guiting  was  a  family  man 
and  merciful.  The  school  children  all  creaked 
and  pattered  out  of  church  after  morning  prayer, 
and  any  other  small  people  in  the  congregation 
were  encouraged  to  do  likewise,  the  well-filled 
vicarage  pew  setting  the  example.  Therefore, 
Miles  reckoned,  that  even  supposing  Miss  Morton 
took  the  little  boy  to  church  (he  couldn't  con- 
ceive of  anyone  having  the  temerity  to  escort 
little  Fay  thither),  they  would  come  out  in  about 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  after  the  bell  stopped. 
But  he  had  no  intention  of  waiting  for  that.  The 
moment  the  bell  ceased  he — unaccompanied  by 
any  of  the  dogs  grouped  about  him  at  that  mo- 
ment— was  going  to  investigate  the  Wren's  End 
garden.  He  knew  every  corner  of  it,  and  he  in- 

232 


Meg  and  Captain  Middleton 

tended  to  unearth  Meg  and  the  children  if  they 
were  to  be  found. 

Besides,  he  ardently  desired  to  see  William. 

William  was  a  lawful  pretext.  No  one  could 
see  anything  odd  hi  his  calling  at  Wren's  End  to 
see  William.  It  was  a  perfectly  natural  thing 
to  do. 

Confound  Mrs.  Trent. 

Confound  Pen,  what  did  she  want  to  interfere 
for? 

Confound  that  bell.    Would  it  never  stop? 

Yes  it  had.    No  it  hadn't.    Yes  ...  it  had. 

Give  a  few  more  minutes  for  laggards,  and 
then 

Three  melancholy  and  disappointed  dogs  were 
left  in  the  Manor  Garden,  while  Miles  swung 
down  the  drive,  past  the  church,  and  into  the 
road  that  led  to  Wren's  End. 

What  a  morning  it  was ! 

The  whole  world  seemed  to  have  put  on  its 
Sunday  frock.  There  had  been  rain  in  the  night, 
and  the  air  was  full  of  the  delicious  fresh-washed 
smell  of  spring  herbage.  Wren's  End  seemed 
wonderfully  quiet  and  deserted  as  Miles  turned 
into  the  drive.  As  he  neared  the  house  he  paused 
and  listened,  but  there  was  no  sound  of  high  little 
voices  anywhere. 

Were  they  at  church,  then? 

They  couldn't  be  indoors  on  such  a  beautiful 
day. 

Miles  whistled  softly,  knowing  that  if  William 
were  anywhere  within  hearing,  that  would  bring 
him  at  the  double. 

233 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

But  no  joyfully  galumphing  William  appeared 
to  welcome  him. 

He  had  no  intention  of  ringing  to  inquire.  No, 
he'd  take  a  good  look  round  first,  before  he  went 
back  to  hang  about  outside  the  church. 

It  was  pleasant  in  the  Wren's  End  garden. 

Presently  he  went  down  the  broad  central  path 
of  the  walled  garden,  with  borders  of  flowers  and 
beds  of  vegetables.  Half-way  down,  in  the  sun- 
niest, warmest  place,  he  came  upon  a  hammock 
slung  between  an  apple-tree  not  quite  out  and  a 
pear-tree  that  was  nearly  over,  and  a  voice  from 
the  hammock  called  sleepily:  "Is  that  you, 
Earley?  I  wish  you'd  pick  up  my  cigarette  case 
for  me;  it's  fallen  into  the  lavender  bush  just 
below." 

"Yes,  Miss,"  a  voice  answered  that  was  cer- 
tainly not  Earley's. 

Meg  leaned  out  of  the  hammock  to  look  be- 
hind her. 

"Hullo!"  she  said.  "Why  are  you  not  in 
church?  I  can't  get  up  because  I'm  a  prisoner 
on  parole.  Short  of  a  thunderstorm  nothing  is 
to  move  me  from  this  hammock  till  Miss  Ross 
comes  back." 

Miles  stood  in  the  pathway  looking  down  at 
the  muffled  figure  in  the  hammock.  There  was 
little  to  be  seen  of  Meg  save  her  rumpled,  hatless 
head.  She  was  much  too  economical  of  her  pre- 
cious caps  to  waste  one  in  a  hammock.  She  had 
slept  for  nearly  two  hours,  then  Hannah  roused 
her  with  a  cup  of  soup.  She  was  drowsy  and 
warm  and  comfortable,  and  her  usually  pale 

234 


Meg  and  Captain  Middleton 

cheeks  were  almost  as  pink  as  the  apple-blossom 
buds  above  her  head. 

"Do  you  want  to  sleep?  Or  may  I  stop  and 
talk  to  you  a  bit?"  Miles  asked,  when  he  had 
found  the  somewhat  battered  cigarette  case  and 
restored  it  to  her. 

"As  I'm  very  plainly  off  duty,  I  suppose  you 
may  stay  and  talk — if  I  fall  asleep  in  the  middle 
you  must  not  be  offended.  You'll  find  plenty  of 
chairs  in  the  tool  house." 

When  Miles  returned  Meg  had  lit  her  cigarette, 
and  he  begged  a  light  from  her. 

What  little  hands  she  had!  How  fine-grained 
and  delicate  her  skin ! 

Again  he  felt  that  queer  lump  in  his  throat  at 
the  absurd,  sweet  pathos  of  her. 

He  placed  his  chair  where  he  had  her  full  in 
view,  not  too  near,  yet  comfortably  so  for  con- 
versation. Jan  had  swung  the  hammock  very 
high,  and  Meg  looked  down  at  Miles  over  the 
edge. 

"It  is  unusual,"  she  said,  "to  find  a  competent 
nurse  spending  her  morning  in  this  fashion,  but 
if  you  know  Miss  Ross  at  all,  you  will  already 
have  realised  that  under  her  placid  exterior  she 
has  a  will  of  iron." 

"I  shouldn't  say  you  were  lacking  in  deter- 
mination." 

"Oh,  I'm  nothing  to  Jan.  She  exerts  physical 
force.  Look  at  me  perched  up  here !  How  can  I 
get  down  without  a  bad  fall,  swathed  like  a 
mummy  in  wraps;  while  my  employer  does  my 
work?" 

235 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"But  you  don't  want  to  get  down.  You  look 
awfully  comfortable." 

"I  am  awfully  comfortable — but  it's  most  .  .  . 
unprofessional — please  don't  tell  anybody  else." 

Meg  closed  her  eyes,  looking  rather  like  a 
sleepy  kitten,  and  Miles  watched  her  in  silence 
with  a  pain  at  his  heart.  Something  kept  saying 
over  and  over  again:  "Six  years  ago  that  girl 
there  ran  off  with  Walter  Brooke.  Six  years  ago 
that  apparently  level-headed,  sensible  little  per- 
son was  dazzled  by  the  pinchbeck  graces  of  that 
epicure  in  sensations."  Miles  fully  granted  his 
charm,  his  gentle  melancholy,  his  caressing  man- 
ner; but  with  it  all  Miles  felt  that  he  was  so 
plainly  "a  wrong-'un,"  so  clearly  second-rate  and 
untrustworthy — and  a  nice  girl  ought  to  recog- 
nise these  things  intuitively. 

Miles  looked  very  sad  and  grave,  and  Meg, 
suddenly  opening  her  eyes,  found  him  regarding 
her  with  this  incomprehensible  expression. 

"You  are  not  exactly  talkative,"  she  said. 

"I  thought,  perhaps,  you  wanted  to  rest,  and 
would  rather  not  talk.  Maybe  I'm  a  bit  of  a 
bore,  and  you'd  rather  I  went  away?" 

"You  have  not  yet  asked  after  William." 

"I  hoped  to  find  William,  but  he's  nowhere  to 
be  seen." 

"He's  with  Jan  and  the  children.     I  think "- 
here  Meg  lifted  her  curly  head  over  the  edge  of 
the  hammock — "he  is  the  very  darlingest  animal 
in  the  world.     I  love  William." 

"You  do!    I  knew  you  would." 

"I  do.  He's  so  faithful  and  kind  and  under- 
standing." 

236 


Meg  and  Captain  Middleton 

"Has  he  been  quite  good?" 

"Well  .  .  .  once  or  twice  he  may  have  been  a 
little — destructive — but  you  expect  that  with 
children." 

"I  hope  you  punish  him." 

"Jan  does.  Jan  has  a  most  effectual  slap,  but 
there's  always  a  dreadful  disturbance  with  the 
children  on  these  occasions.  Little  Fay  roars  the 
house  down  when  William  has  to  be  chastised." 

"What  has  he  done?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  tell  tales  of  William." 

Miles  and  Meg  smiled  at  one  another,  and 
Walter  Brooke  faded  from  his  mind. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  and  paused,  "you  will  by 
and  by  allow  to  William's  late  master  a  small 
portion  of  that  regard?" 

"If  William's  master  on  further  acquaintance 
proves  half  as  loyal  and  trustworthy  as  William — 
I  couldn't  help  it." 

"I  wonder  what  you  mean  exactly  by  loyal  and 
trustworthy?" 

"They're  not  very  elastic  terms,  are  they?" 

"Don't  you  think  they  mean  rather  the  same 
thing?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  Meg  cried  eagerly;  "a  person 
might  be  ever  so  trustworthy  and  yet  not  loyal. 
I  take  it  that  trustworthy  and  honest  in  tangible 
things  are  much  the  same.  Loyalty  is  something 
intangible,  and  often  means  belief  hi  people  when 
everything  seems  against  them.  It's  a  much 
rarer  quality  than  to  be  trustworthy.  William 
would  stick  to  one  if  one  hadn't  a  crust,  just  be- 
cause he  liked  to  be  there  to  make  things  a  bit 
less  wretched." 

237 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Miles  smoked  in  silence  for  a  minute,  and 
again  Meg  closed  her  eyes. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said  presently,  "I  didn't 
know  you  and  my  cousin  Pen  were  friends.  I 
met  her  in  the  Park  the  day  before  yesterday. 
Her  hair's  rather  the  same  colour  as  yours — 
handsome  woman,  isn't  she?" 

Meg  opened  her  eyes  and  turned  crimson. 
Had  the  outspoken  Lady  Pen  said  anything 
about  her  hair,  she  wondered. 

Miles,  noting  the  sudden  blush,  put  it  down 
to  Lady  Pen's  knowledge  of  what  had  happened 
at  the  Trents,  and  the  miserable  feelings  of  doubt 
and  apprehension  came  surging  back. 

"  She's  quite  lovely,"  said  Meg. 

"A  bit  too  much  on  the  big  side,  don't  you 
think?" 

"I  admire  big  women." 

Silence  fell  again.  Meg  pulled  the  rug  up 
under  her  chin. 

Surely  it  was  not  quite  so  warm  as  a  few  min- 
utes ago. 

Miles  stood  up.  "I  have  a  guilty  feeling  that 
Miss  Ross  will  strongly  disapprove  of  my  dis- 
turbing you  like  this.  If  you  will  tell  me  which 
way  they  have  gone  I  will  go  and  meet  them." 

"They've  gone  to  your  uncle's  woods,  and  I 
think  they  must  be  on  their  way  home  by  now. 
If  you  call  William  he'll  answer." 

"I  won't  say  good-bye,"  said  Miles,  "because 
I  shall  come  back  with  them." 

"I  shall  be  on  duty  then,"  said  Meg.  "Good- 
bye." 

238 


Meg  and  Captain  Middleton 

She  turned  her  face  from  him  and  nestled 
down  among  her  cushions.  For  a  full  minute  he 
stood  staring  at  the  back  of  her  head,  with  its 
crushed  and  tumbled  tangle  of  short  curls. 

Then  quite  silently  he  took  his  way  out  of  the 
Wren's  End  garden. 

Meg  shut  her  eyes  very  tight.  Was  it  the 
light  that  made  them  smart  so? 


239 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   YOUNG   IDEA 

CQUIRE  WALCOTE  had  given  the  Wren's 
^  End  family  the  run  of  his  woods,  and,  what 
was  even  more  precious,  permission  to  use  the 
river-path  through  his  grounds.  Lady  Mary, 
who  had  no  children  of  her  own,  was  immensely 
interested  in  Tony  and  little  Fay,  and  would 
give  Jan  more  advice  as  to  their  management  in 
an  hour  than  the  vicar's  wife  ever  offered  during 
the  whole  of  their  acquaintance.  But  then  she 
had  a  family  of  eight. 

But  the  first  time  Tony  went  to  the  river  Jan 
took  him  alone;  and  not  to  the  near  water  in 
Squire  Walcote's  grounds,  but  to  the  old  bridge 
that  crossed  the  Amber  some  Way  out  of  the  vil- 
lage. It  was  the  typical  Cotswold  bridge,  with 
low  parapets  that  make  such  a  comfortable  seat 
for  meditative  villagers.  Just  before  they  reached 
it  she  loosed  Tony's  hand,  and  held  her  breath  to 
see  what  he  would  do.  Would  he  run  straight 
across  to  get  to  the  other  side,  or  would  he  look 
over? 

Yes.  He  went  straight  to  the  low  wall; 
stopped,  looked  over,  leaned  over,  and  stared 
and  stared. 

Jan  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

The  water  of  the  Amber  just  there  is  deep  and 
240 


The  Young  Idea 

clear,  an  infinite  thing  for  a  child  to  look  down 
into ;  but  it  was  not  of  that  Jan  was  thinking. 

Hugo  was  no  fisherman.  Water  had  no  attrac- 
tion for  him,  save  as  a  pleasant  means  of  taking 
exercise.  He  was  a  fair  oar;  but  for  a  stream 
that  wouldn't  float  a  boat  he  cared  nothing  at  all. 

Charles  Considine  Smith  had  angled  diligently. 
In  fact,  he  wrote  almost  as  much  about  the  habits 
of  trout  as  about  wrens.  James  Ross,  the  gal- 
lant who  carried  off  the  second  Tranquil,  had 
been  fishing  at  Amber  Guiting  when  he  first 
saw  her.  Anthony's  father  fished  and  so  did 
Anthony;  and  Jan,  herself,  could  throw  a  fly 
quite  prettily.  Yet,  your  true  fisherman  is  born, 
not  made;  it  is  not  a  question  of  environment, 
but  it  is,  very  often,  one  of  heredity;  for  the  ten- 
dency comes  out  when,  apparently,  every  adverse 
circumstance  has  combined  to  crush  it. 

And  no  mortal  who  cares  for  or  is  going  to  care 
for  fishing  can  ever  cross  a  bridge  without  stop- 
ping to  look  down  into  the  water. 

"There's  a  fish  swimming  down  there,"  Tony 
whispered  (was  it  instinct  made  him  whisper? 
Jan  wondered),  "brown  and  speckledy,  rather 
like  the  thrushes  in  the  garden." 

Jan  clutched  nervously  at  the  little  coat  while 
Tony  hung  over  so  far  that  only  his  toes  were  on 
the  ground.  She  had  brought  a  bit  of  bread  in 
her  pocket,  and  let  him  throw  bits  to  the  greedy, 
wily  old  trout  who  had  defied  a  hundred  skilful 
rods.  On  that  first  day  old  Amber  whispered 
her  secret  to  Tony  and  secured  another  slave. 

For  Jan  it  was  only  another  proof  that  Tony 
241 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

possessed  a  sterling  character.  Since  her  sister's 
disastrous  marriage  she  had  come  to  look  upon  a 
taste  for  fishing  as  more  or  less  of  a  moral  safe- 
guard. She  had  often  reflected  that  if  only  Fay 
had  not  been  so  lukewarm  with  regard  to  the 
gentle  craft — and  so  bored  in  a  heavenly  place 
where,  if  it  did  rain  for  twenty-three  of  the 
twenty-four  hours,  even  a  second-rate  rod  might 
land  fourteen  or  fifteen  pounds  of  good  sea- 
trout  in  an  afternoon — she  could  never  have 
fallen  in  love  with  Hugo  Tancred,  who  was  equally 
without  enthusiasm  and  equally  bored  till  he 
met  Fay.  Jan  was  ready  enough  now  to  blame 
herself  for  her  absorption  at  this  time,  and  would 
remember  guiltily  the  relief  with  which  she  and 
her  father  greeted  Fay's  sudden  willingness  to 
remain  a  week  longer  in  a  place  she  previously 
had  declared  to  be  absolutely  unendurable. 

The  first  tune  Tony's  sister  went  to  Amber 
Bridge  Meg  took  them  both.  Little  Fay  de- 
scended from  her  pram  just  before  they  reached 
it,  declaring  it  was  a  "nice  dly  place  to  walk." 
She  ran  on  a  little  ahead,  and  before  Meg  realised 
what  she  was  doing,  she  had  scrambled  up  on 
to  the  top  of  the  low  wall  and  run  briskly  along 
it  till  her  progress  was  stopped  by  a  man  who 
was  leaning  over  immersed  in  thought.  He 
nearly  fell  in  himself,  when  a  clear  little  voice 
inquired,  "Do  loo  mind  if  I  climb  over  loo?" 

It  was  Farmer  Burgess,  and  he  clasped  the 
tripping  lady  of  the  white  woolly  gaiters  in  a 
pair  of  strong  arms,  and  lifted  her  down  just  as 
the  terrified  Meg  reached  them. 

242 


The  Young  Idea 

"Law,  Missie!"  gasped  Mr.  Burgess,  "you 
mustn't  do  the  like  o'  that  there.  It's  downright 
fool'ardy." 

"  Downlight  foolardy,"  echoed  little  Fay.  "  And 
what  nelse?" 

According  to  Mr.  Burgess  it  was  dangerous 
and  a  great  many  other  things  as  well,  but  he 
lost  his  heart  to  her  in  that  moment,  and  she 
could  twist  him  round  her  little  finger  ever  after. 

To  be  told  that  a  thing  was  dangerous  was  to 
add  to  its  attractions.  She  was  absolutely  with- 
out fear,  and  could  climb  like  a  kitten.  She 
hadn't  been  at  Wren's  End  a  week  before  she  was 
discovered  half-way  up  the  staircase  on  the  out- 
side of  the  banisters.  And  when  she  had  been 
caught  and  lifted  over  by  a  white-faced  aunt, 
explained  that  it  was  "muts  the  most  instasting 
way  of  going  up  tairs." 

When  asked  how  she  expected  to  get  to  the 
other  side  at  the  top,  she  giggled  derisively  and 
said  "ovel." 

Jan  seriously  considered  a  barbed-wire  entan- 
glement for  the  outside  edge  of  her  staircase  after 
that. 

While  Meg  rested  in  the  hammock  Jan  spent  a 
strenuous  morning  in  Guiting  Woods  with  the 
children  and  William.  Late  windflowers  were 
still  in  bloom,  and  early  bluebells  made  lovely 
atmospheric  patches  under  the  trees,  just  as 
though  a  bit  of  the  sky  had  fallen,  as  in  the  oft- 
told  tale  of  "Cockie  Lockie."  There  were  prim- 
roses, too,  and  white  violets,  so  that  there  were 
many  little  bunches  with  exceedingly  short  stalks 

243 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

to  be  arranged  and  tied  up  with  the  worsted  prov- 
ident Auntie  Jan  had  brought  with  her;  finally 
they  all  sat  down  on  a  rug  lined  with  mackintosh, 
and  little  Fay  demanded  "Clipture." 

"Clipture"  was  her  form  of  " Scripture,"  which 
Auntie  Jan  "told"  every  morning  after  breakfast 
to  the  children.  Jan  was  a  satisfactory  narrator, 
for  the  form  of  her  stories  never  varied.  The 
Bible  stories  she  told  in  the  actual  Bible  words, 
and  all  children  appreciate  their  dramatic  sim- 
plicity and  directness. 

That  morning  Joseph  and  his  early  adventures 
and  the  baby  Moses  were  the  favourites,  and 
when  these  had  been  followed  by  "The  Three 
Bears"  and  "Cock  Robin,"  it  was  time  to  collect 
the  bouquets  and  go  home.  And  on  the  way 
home  they  met  Captain  Middleton.  William 
spied  him  afar  off,  and  dashed  towards  him  with 
joyful,  deep-toned  barks.  He  was  delighted  to 
see  William,  said  he  had  grown  and  was  in  the 
pink  of  condition;  and  then  announced  that  he 
had  already  been  to  Wren's  End  and  had  seen 
Miss  Morton.  There  was  something  in  the  tone 
of  this  avowal  that  made  Jan  think.  It  was 
shy,  it  was  proud,  it  seemed  to  challenge  Jan  to 
find  any  fault  in  his  having  done  so,  and  it  was 
supremely  self-conscious.  He  walked  back  with 
them  to  the  Wren's  End  gate,  and  then  came  a 
moment  of  trial  for  William. 

He  wanted  to  go  with  his  master. 

He  wanted  to  stay  with  the  children. 

Captain  Middleton  settled  it  by  shaking  each 
offered  paw  and  saying  very  seriously:  "You 

244 


The  Young  Idea 

must  stay  and  take  care  of  the  ladies,  William. 
I  trust  you."  William  looked  wistfully  after  the 
tall  figure  that  went  down  the  road  with  the 
queer,  light,  jumpetty  tread  of  all  men  who  ride 
much. 

Then  he  trotted  after  Jan  and  the  children  and 
was  exuberantly  glad  to  see  Meg  again. 

She  declared  herself  quite  rested;  heard  that 
they  had  seen  Captain  Middleton,  and  met  un- 
moved the  statement  that  he  was  coming  to  tea. 

But  she  didn't  look  nearly  so  well  rested  as 
Jan  had  hoped  she  would. 

After  the  children's  dinner  Meg  went  on  duty, 
and  Jan  saw  no  more  of  the  nursery  party  till 
later  in  the  afternoon.  The  creaking  wheels  of 
two  small  wheelbarrows  made  Jan  look  up  from 
the  letters  she  was  writing  at  the  knee-hole  table 
that  stood  in  the  nursery  window,  and  she  beheld 
little  Fay  and  Tony,  followed  by  Meg  knitting 
busily,  as  they  came  through  the  yew  archway 
on  to  the  lawn. 

Meg  subsided  into  one  of  the  white  seats,  but 
the  children  processed  solemnly  round,  pausing 
under  Jan's  window. 

"I  know  lots  an'  lots  of  Clipture,"  her  niece's 
voice  proclaimed  proudly  as  she  sat  down  heavily 
in  her  wheelbarrow  on  the  top  of  some  garden 
produce  she  had  collected. 

"How  much  do  you  know?"  Tony  asked  scep- 
tically. 

"  Oh,  lots  an'  lots,  all  about  poor  little  Jophez 
in  the  bullushes,  and  his  instasting  dleams." 

"Twasn't  Jophez,"  Tony  corrected.  "It  was 
245 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Mophez  in  the  bulrushes,  and  he  didn't  have  no 
dreams.     That  was  Jophez." 

"How  d'you  know,"  Fay  persisted,  "that  poor 
little  Mophez  had  no  dleams?  Why  shouldn't  he 
have  dleams  same  as  Jophez?" 

"It  doesn't  say  so." 

"It  doesn't  say  he  didn't  have  dleams.  He 
had  dleams,  I  tell  you;  I  know  he  had.  Muts 
nicer  dleams  van  Jophez." 

"Let's  ask  Meg;   she'll  know." 

Jan  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  children  had 
not  noticed  her,  and  Meg  had  a  fertile  mind. 

The  wheelbarrows  were  trundled  across  the 
lawn  and  paused  in  front  of  Meg,  while  a  lively 
duet  demanded  simultaneously: 

"Did  little  Mophez  have  dleams?" 
' Didn't  deah  littoo  Mophez  have  dleams?" 

When  Meg  had  disentangled  the  questions  and 
each  child  sat  down  in  a  wheelbarrow  at  her 
feet,  she  remarked  judicially:  "Well,  there's 
nothing  said  about  little  Moses'  dreams,  cer- 
tainly; but  I  should  think  it's  quite  likely  the 
poor  baby  did  have  dreams." 

"What  sort  of  dleams?  Nicer  van  sheaves 
and  sings,  wasn't  they?" 

"I  should  think,"  Meg  said  thoughtfully, 
"that  he  dreamed  he  must  cry  very  quietly  lest 
the  Egyptians  should  hear  him." 

"Deah  littoo  Mophez  .  .  .  and  what  nelse?" 

Meg  was  tempted  and  fell.  It  was  very  easy 
for  her  to  hi  vent  "dleams"  for  "deah  littoo 
Mophez"  lying  in  his  bulrush  ark  among  the 
flags  at  the  river's  edge.  And,  wholly  regardless 

246 


.cu 

{ 


The  Young  Idea 

of  geography,  she  transported  him  to  the  Amber, 
where  the  flags  were  almost  in  bloom  at  that 
moment,  such  local  colour  adding  much  to  the 
realism  of  her  stories. 

Presently  William  grew  restless.  He  ran  to 
Anthony's  Venetian  gate  in  the  yew  hedge  and 
squealed  (William  never  whined)  to  get  out. 
Tony  let  him  out,  and  he  fled  down  the  drive  to 
meet  his  master,  who  had  come  a  good  half- 
hour  too  soon  for  tea. 

Jan  continued  to  try  and  finish  her  letters 
while  Captain  Middleton,  coatless,  on  all-fours, 
enacted  an  elephant  which  the  children  rode  in 
turn.  When  he  had  completely  ruined  the  knees 
of  his  trousers  he  arose  and  declared  it  was  time 
to  play  "Here  we  go  round  the  mulberry-bush," 
and  it  so  happened  that  once  or  twice  he  played 
it  hand-in-hand  with  Meg. 

Jan  left  her  letters  and  went  out. 

The  situation  puzzled  her.  She  feared  for 
Meg's  peace  of  mind,  for  Captain  Middleton 
was  undoubtedly  attractive;  and  then  she  found 
herself  fearing  for  his. 

After  tea  and  more  games  with  the  children 
Captain  Middleton  escorted  his  hostess  to  church, 
where  he  joined  his  aunt  in  the  Manor  seat. 

During  church  Jan  found  herself  wondering 
uneasily: 

"Was  everybody  going  to  fall  hi  love  with 
Meg?" 

"Would  Peter?" 

"What  a  disagreeable  idea !" 

And  yet,  why  should  it  be? 
247 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Resolutely  she  told  herself  that  Peter  was  at 
perfect  liberty  to  fall  in  love  with  Meg  if  he  liked, 
and  set  herself  to  listen  intelligently  to  the  Vicar's 
sermon. 

Meg  started  to  put  her  children  to  bed,  only 
to  find  that  her  fertility  of  imagination  in  the 
afternoon  was  to  prove  her  undoing  in  the  eve- 
ning; for  her  memory  was  by  no  means  as  re- 
liable as  her  powers  of  invention. 

Little  Fay  urgently  demanded  the  whole  cycle 
of  little  Mophez'  dleams  over  again.  And  for 
the  life  of  her  Meg  couldn't  remember  them 
either  in  then*  proper  substance  or  sequence— 
and  this  in  spite  of  the  most  persistent  prompt- 
ing, and  she  failed  utterly  to  reproduce  the  enter- 
tainment of  the  afternoon.  Both  children  were 
disappointed,  but  little  Fay,  accustomed  as  she 
was  to  Auntie  Jan's  undeviating  method  of 
narrating  "Clipture,"  was  angry  as  well.  She 
fell  into  a  passion  of  rage  and  nearly  screamed 
the  house  down.  Since  the  night  of  Ayah's  de- 
parture there  had  not  been  such  a  scene. 

Poor  Meg  vowed  (though  she  knew  she  would 
break  her  vow  the  very  first  time  she  was 
tempted)  that  never  again  would  she  tamper 
with  Holy  Writ,  and  for  some  weeks  she  coldly 
avoided  both  Jophez  and  Mophez  as  topics  of 
conversation. 

Meg  could  never  resist  playing  at  things, 
and  what  "Clipture"  the  children  learned  from 
Jan  in  the  morning  they  insisted  on  enacting  with 
Meg  later  in  the  day. 

248 


The  Young  Idea 

Sometimes  she  was  seized  with  misgiving  as 
to  the  propriety  of  these  representations,  but 
dismissed  her  doubts  as  cowardly. 

"After  all,"  she  explained  to  Jan,  "we  only 
play  the  very  human  bits.  I  never  let  them 
pretend  to  be  anybody  divine  .  .  .  and  you 
know  the  people — in  the  Old  Testament,  any- 
way— were  most  of  them  extremely  human, 
not  to  say  disreputable  at  times." 

It  is  possible  that  "Capture's"  supreme  at- 
traction for  the  children  was  that  it  conveyed 
the  atmosphere  of  the  familiar  East.  The  New 
Testament  was  more  difficult  to  play  at,  but, 
being  equally  dramatic,  the  children  couldn't 
see  it. 

"Can't  we  do  one  teeny  miracle?"  Tony  would 
beseech,  but  Meg  was  firm;  she  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  either  miracles  nor  yet  with 
angels.  Little  Fay  ardently  desired  to  be  an 
angel,  but  Meg  wouldn't  have  it  at  any  price. 

"You're  not  in  the  least  like  an  angel,  you 
know,"  she  said  severely. 

"What  for?" 

"Because  angels  are  perfectly  good." 

"I  could  pletend  to  be  puffectly  good." 

"Let's  play  Johnny  Baptist,"  suggested  the 
ever-helpful  Tony,  "and  we  could  pittend  to 
bring  in  his  head  on  a  charger." 

"Certainly  not,"  Meg  said  hastily.  "That 
would  be  a  horrid  game." 

"Let  me  be  the  daughter!"  little  Fay  im- 
plored, "and  dance  in  flont  of  Helod." 

This  was  permitted,  and  Tony,  decorated 
249 


with  William's  chain,  sat  gloomily  scowling  at 
the  gyrations  of  "the  daughter,"  who,  assisted 
by  William,  danced  all  over  the  nursery:  and 
Meg,  watching  the  representation,  decided  that 
if  the  original  " daughter"  was  half  as  bewitch- 
ing as  this  one,  there  really  might  have  been 
some  faint  excuse  for  Herod. 

Hannah  had  no  idea  of  these  goings-on,  or 
she  would  have  expected  the  roof  to  fall  in  and 
crush  them.  Yet  she,  too,  was  included  among 
the  children's  prophets,  owing  to  her  exact  and 
thorough  knowledge  of  "Clipture."  Hannah's 
favourite  part  of  the  Bible  was  the  Book  of 
Daniel,  which  she  knew  practically  by  heart, 
and  her  rendering  of  certain  chapters  was — 
though  she  would  have  hotly  resented  the  phrase 
— extremely  dramatic. 

It  is  so  safe  and  satisfying  to  know  that  your 
favourite  story  will  run  smoothly,  clause  for 
clause,  and  word  for  word,  just  as  you  like  it 
best,  and  the  children  were  always  sure  of  this 
with  Hannah. 

Anne  Chitt  would  listen  open-mouthed  in 
astonishment,  exclaiming  afterwards,  "Why, 
'Annah,  wot  a  tremenjous  lot  of  Bible  verses 
you  'ave  learned  to  be  sure." 

The  children  once  tried  Anne  Chitt  as  a  story- 
teller, but  she  was  a  failure. 

As  she  had  been  present  at  several  of  Hannah's 
recitals  of  the  Three  Children  and  the  burning 
fiery  furnace,  they  thought  it  but  a  modest  de- 
mand upon  her  powers.  But  when — instead  of 
beginning  with  the  sonorous  "Then  an  herald 

250 


The  Young  Idea 

cried  aloud,  To  you  it  is  commanded,  0  people, 
nations  and  languages" — when  she  wholly  omitted 
any  reference  to  "the  sound  of  cornet,  flute,  harp, 
sackbut,  psaltery,  and  dulcimer,  and  all  kinds  of 
musick" — and  essayed  to  tell  the  story  in  broad 
Gloucestershire  and  her  own  bald  words,  the 
disappointed  children  fell  upon  her  and  thumped 
her  rudely  upon  the  back;  declaring  her  story 
to  be  "kittcha"  and  she,  herself,  a  budmash. 
Which,  being  interpreted,  meant  that  her  story 
was  most  badly  made  and  that  she,  herself,  was 
a  rascal. 

Anne  Chitt  was  much  offended,  and  complained 
tearfully  to  Jan  that  she  "  wouldn't  'ave  said 
nothin'  if  they'd  called  'er  or'nery  names,  but 
them  there  Injian  words  was  more  than  she 
could  abear." 


251 


Cl 


CHAPTER  XX 


ONE   WAY  OF   LOVE' 


AMONG  the  neighbours  there  was  none 
**•  more  assiduous  in  the  matter  of  calls  and 
other  friendly  manifestations  than  Mr.  Huntly 
Withells — emphasis  on  the  "ells" — who  lived  at 
Guiting  Grange,  about  a  couple  of  miles  from 
Wren's  End.  Mr.  Withells  was  settled  at  the 
Grange  some  years  before  Miss  Janet  Ross  left 
her  house  to  Jan,  and  he  was  already  a  person 
of  importance  and  influence  in  that  part  of  the 
county  when  Anthony  Ross  and  his  daughters 
first  spent  a  whole  summer  there. 

Mr.  Withells  proved  most  neighbourly.  He 
had  artistic  leanings  himself,  and  possessed  some 
good  pictures;  among  them,  one  of  Anthony's, 
which  naturally  proved  a  bond  of  union.  He  did 
not  even  so  much  as  sketch,  himself — which 
Anthony  considered  another  point  in  his  favour 
— but  he  was  a  really  skilled  photographer, 
possessed  the  most  elaborate  cameras,  and  ob- 
tained quite  beautiful  results. 

Since  Jan's  return  from  India  he  had  com- 
pletely won  her  heart  by  taking  a  great  many 
photographs  of  the  children,  pictures  delight- 
fully natural,  and  finished  as  few  amateurs  con- 
trive to  present  them. 

252 


"One  Way  of  Love" 

It  was  rumoured  in  Amber  Guiting  that  Mr. 
Withells'  views  on  the  subject  of  matrimony 
were  "peculiar";  but  all  the  ladies,  especially 
the  elderly  ladies,  were  unanimous  in  declaring 
that  he  had  a  "beautiful  mind." 

Mrs.  Fream,  the  vicar's  wife,  timidly  confided 
to  Jan  that  Mr.  Withells  had  told  her  husband 
that  he  cared  only  for  "spiritual  marriage" — 
whatever  that  might  be;  and  that,  as  yet,  he 
had  met  no  woman  whojjpi  he  felt  would  see  eye 
to  eye  with  him  on  this  question.  "He  doesn't 
approve  of  caresses,"  she  added. 

"Well,  who  wants  to  caress  him?"  Jan  asked 
bluntly. 

Meg  declared  there  was  one  thing  she  could 
not  bear  about  Mr.  Withells,  and  that  was  the 
way  he  shook  hands,  "exactly  as  if  he  had  no 
thumbs.  If  he's  so  afraid  of  touching  one  as 
all  that  comes  to,  why  doesn't  he  let  it  alone?" 

Yet  the  apparently  thumbless  hands  were 
constantly  occupied  in  bearing  gifts  of  all  kinds 
to  his  friends. 

In  appearance  he  was  dapper,  smallish,  with- 
out being  undersized,  always  immaculately  neat 
in  his  attire,  with  a  clean-shaven,  serious,  rather 
sallow  face,  which  was  inclined  to  be  chubby  as 
to  the  cheeks.  He  wore  double-sighted  pince- 
nez,  and  no  mortal  had  ever  seen  him  without 
them.  His  favourite  writer  was  Miss  Jane  Aus- 
ten, and  he  deplored  the  licentious  tendency  of 
so  much  modern  literature;  frequently,  and  with 
flushed  countenance,  denouncing  certain  books 
as  an  "outrage."  He  was  considered  a  very 

253 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

well-read  man.  He  disliked  anything  that  was 
"not  quite  nice,"  and  detested  a  strong  light, 
whether  it  were  thrown  upon  life  or  landscape; 
in  bright  sunshine  he  always  carried  a  white 
umbrella  lined  with  green.  The  game  he  played 
best  was  croquet,  and  here  he  was  really  first 
class;  but  he  was  also  skilled  in  every  known 
form  of  Patience,  and  played  each  evening  un- 
less he  happened  to  be  dining  out. 

As  regards  food  he  was  something  of  a  faddist, 
and  on  the  subject  of  fresh  air  almost  a  mono- 
maniac. He  declared  that  he  could  not  exist 
for  ten  minutes  in  a  room  with  closed  windows, 
and  that  the  smell  of  apples  made  him  feel  posi- 
tively faint;  moreover,  he  would  mention  his 
somewhat  numerous  antipathies  as  though  there 
were  something  peculiarly  meritorious  in  pos- 
sessing so  many.  This  made  his  entertainment 
at  any  meal  a  matter  of  agitated  consideration 
among  the  ladies  of  Amber  Guiting. 

Nevertheless,  he  kept  an  excellent  and  hos- 
pitable table  himself,  and  in  no  way  forced  his 
own  taste  upon  others.  He  disliked  the  smell 
of  tobacco  and  hardly  ever  drank  wine,  yet  he 
kept  a  stock  of  excellent  cigars  and  his  cellar 
was  beyond  reproach. 

He  had  been  observing  Jan  for  several  years, 
and  was  rapidly  coming  to  the  conclusion  that 
she  was  an  "eminently  sensible  woman."  Her 
grey  hair  and  the  way  she  had  managed  every- 
thing for  her  father  led  him  to  believe  that  she 
was  many  years  older  than  her  real  age.  Re- 
cently he  had  taken  to  come  to  Wren's  End  on 


"One  Way  of  Love" 

one  pretext  and  another  almost  every  day.  He 
was  kind  and  pleasant  to  the  children,  who 
amused  and  pleased  him — especially  little  Fay; 
but  he  was  much  puzzled  by  Meg,  whom  he  had 
known  in  pre-cap-and-apron  days  while  she  was 
staying  at  Wren's  End. 

He  couldn't  quite  place  Meg,  and  there  was 
an  occasional  glint  in  her  queer  eyes  that  he 
found  disconcerting.  He  was  never  comfortable 
in  her  society,  for  he  objected  to  red  hair  almost 
as  strongly  as  to  a  smell  of  apples. 

He  really  liked  the  children,  and  since  he 
knew  he  couldn't  get  Jan  without  them  he  was 
beginning  to  think  that  in  such  a  big  house  as 
the  Grange  they  would  not  necessarily  be  much 
in  the  way.  He  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
Hugo  Tancred. 

Jan  satisfied  his  fastidious  requirements.  She 
was  dignified,  graceful,  and,  he  considered,  of 
admirable  parts.  He  felt  that  in  a  very  little 
while  he  could  imbue  Jan  with  his  own  views  as 
to  the  limitations  and  delicate  demarcations  of 
such  a  marriage  as  he  contemplated. 

She  was  so  sensible. 

Meanwhile  the  object  of  these  kind  intentions 
was  wholly  unaware  of  them.  She  was  just  then 
very  much  absorbed  in  her  own  affairs  and  con- 
siderably worried  about  Meg's.  For  Captain 
Middleton's  week-end  was  repeated  on  the  fol- 
lowing Saturday  and  extended  far  into  the  next 
week.  He  came  constantly  to  Wren's  End, 
where  the  children  positively  adored  him,  and 
he  seemed  to  possess  an  infallible  instinct  which 

255 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

led  him  to  the  village  whensoever  Meg  and  her 
charges  had  business  there. 

On  such  occasions  Meg  was  often  quite  rude 
to  Captain  Middleton,  but  the  children  and 
William  more  than  atoned  for  her  coldness  by 
the  warmth  of  their  welcome,  and  he  attached 
himself  to  them. 

In  fact,  as  regards  the  nursery  party  at  Wren's 
End,  Miles  strongly  resembled  William  before  a 
fire — you  might  clrive  him  away  ninety  and 
nine  tunes,  he  always  came  thrusting  back  with 
the  same  expression  of  deprecating  astonish- 
ment that  you  could  be  other  than  delighted  to 
see  him. 

Whither  was  it  all  tending?    Jan  wondered. 

No  further  news  had  come  from  Hugo;  Peter, 
she  supposed,  had  sailed  and  was  due  in  London 
at  the  end  of  the  week. 

Then  Mr.  Huntly  Withells  asked  her  one  after- 
noon to  bicycle  over  to  see  his  spring  irises — he 
called  them  "irides,"  and  invariably  spoke  of 
"crori,"  and  "delphinia" — and  as  Meg  was  taking 
the  children  to  tea  at  the  vicarage,  Jan  went. 

To  her  surprise,  she  found  herself  the  sole 
guest,  but  supposed  she  was  rather  early  and 
that  his  other  friends  hadn't  come  yet. 

They  strolled  about  the  gardens,  so  lovely  in 
their  spring  blossoming,  and  it  happened  that 
from  one  particular  place  they  got  a  specially 
good  view  of  the  house. 

"How  much  larger  it  is  than  you  would  think, 
looking  at  the  front,"  Jan  remarked.  "You 
don't  see  that  wing  at  all  from  the  drive." 

256 


"One  Way  of  Love" 

"There's  plenty  of  room  for  nephews  and 
nieces,"  Mr.  Withells  said  jocularly. 

"Have  you  many  nephews  and  nieces?"  she 
asked,  turning  to  look  at  him,  for  there  was 
something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  that  she  could 
not  understand. 

"Not  of  my  own,"  he  replied,  still  in  that 
queer,  unnatural  voice,  "but  you  see  my  wife 
might  have  ...  if  I  was  married." 

"Are  you  thinking  of  getting  married?"  she 
asked,  with  the  real  interest  such  a  subject  al- 
ways rouses  in  woman. 

"That  depends,"  Mr.  Withells  said  con- 
sciously, "on  whether  the  lady  I  have  in  mind 
...  er  ...  shall  we  sit  down,  Miss  Ross?  It's 
rather  hot  in  the  walks." 

"Oh,  not  yet,"  Jan  exclaimed.  She  couldn't 
think  why,  but  she  began  to  feel  uncomfortable. 
"I  must  see  those  Darwin  tulips  over  there." 

"It's  very  sunny  over  there,"  he  objected. 
"Come  down  the  nut-walk  and  see  the  myosotis 
arvensis;  it  is  already  in  bloom,  the  weather  has 
been  so  warm. 

"Miss  Ross,"  Mr.  Withells  continued  seriously, 
as  they  turned  into  the  nut-walk  which  led  back 
towards  the  house,  "we  have  known  each  other 
for  a  considerable  time  .  .  ." 

"We  have,"  said  Jan,  as  he  had  paused,  evi- 
dently expecting  a  reply. 

"And  I  have  come  to  have  a  great  regard  for 
you  .  .  ." 

Again  he  paused,  and  Jan  found  herself  si- 
lently whispering,  "Curtsy  while  you're  thinking 

257 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

— it  saves  time,"  but  she  preserved  an  outward 
silence. 

"You  are,  if  I  may  say  so,  the  most  sensible 
woman  of  my  acquaintance." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Jan,  but  without  enthu- 
siasm. 

"We  are  neither  of  us  quite  young" — (Mr. 
Withells  was  forty-nine,  but  it  was  a  little  hard 
on  Jan) — "and  I  feel  sure  that  you,  for  instance, 
would  not  expect  or  desire  from  a  husband  those 
constant  outward  demonstrations  of  affection 
such  as  handclaspings  and  kisses,  which  are  so 
foolish  and  insanitary." 

Jan  turned  extremely  red  and  walked  rather 
faster. 

"Do  not  misunderstand  me,  Miss  Ross,"  Mr. 
Withells  continued,  looking  with  real  admiration 
at  her  downcast,  rosy  face — she  must  be  quite 
healthy  he  thought,  to  look  so  clean  and  fresh 
always — "I  lay  down  no  hard-and-fast  rules. 
I  do  not  say  should  my  wife  desire  to  kiss  me 
sometimes,  that  I  should  .  .  .  repulse  her." 

Jan  gasped. 

"But  I  have  the  greatest  objection,  both  on 
sanitary  and  moral  grounds  to — 

"I  can't  imagine  anyone  wanting  to  kiss  you," 
Jan  interrupted  furiously;  "you're  far  too  puffy 
and  stippled." 

And  she  ran  from  him  as  though  an  angry 
bull  were  after  her. 

Mr.  Withells  stood  stock-still  where  he  was, 
in  pained  astonishment. 

He  saw  the  fleeing  fair  one  disappear  into  the 
258 


"One  Way  of  Love" 

distance  and  in  the  shortest  time  on  record  he 
heard  the  clanging  of  her  bicycle  bell  as  she 
scorched  down  his  drive. 

" Puffy  and  stippled"— "Puffy  and  stippled"! 

Mr.  Withells  repeated  to  himself  this  rudely 
personal  remark  as  he  walked  slowly  towards 
the  house. 

What  could  she  mean? 

And  what  in  the  world  had  he  said  to  make 
her  so  angry? 

Women  were  really  most  unaccountable. 

He  ascended  his  handsome  staircase  and  went 
into  his  dressing-room,  and  there  he  sought  his 
looking-glass,  which  stood  in  the  window,  and 
surveyed  himself  critically.  Yes,  his  cheeks 
were  a  bit  puffy  near  the  nostrils,  and,  as  is  gen- 
erally the  case  in  later  life,  the  pores  of  the  skin 
were  a  bit  enlarged,  but  for  ail  that  he  was  quite 
a  personable  man. 

He  sighed.  Miss  Ross,  he  feared,  was  not 
nearly  so  sensible  as  he  had  thought. 

It  was  distinctly  disappointing. 

For  the  first  mile  and  a  quarter  Jan  scorched 
all  she  knew.  The  angry  blood  was  thumping 
in  her  ears  and  she  exclaimed  indignantly  at 
intervals,  "How  dared  he!  How  dared  he!" 

Then  she  punctured  a  tyre. 

There  was  no  hope  of  getting  it  mended  till 
she  reached  Wren's  End,  when  Earley  would 
do  it  for  her.  As  she  pushed  her  bicycle  along 
the  lane  she  recovered  her  sense  of  humour  and 
she  laughed.  And  presently  she  became  aware 

259 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

of  a  faint,  sweet,  elusive  perfume  from  some 
flowering  shrub  on  the  other  side  of  somebody's 
garden  wall. 

It  strongly  resembled  the  smell  of  a  blossom- 
ing tree  that  grew  on  Ridge  Road,  Malabar 
Hill.  And  in  one  second  Jan  was  in  Bombay, 
and  was  standing  in  the  moonlight,  looking  up 
into  a  face  that  was  neither  puffy  nor  stippled 
nor  prim;  but  young  and  thin  and  worn  and  very 
kind.  And  the  exquisite  understanding  of  that 
moment  came  back  to  her,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

Yet  in  another  moment  she  was  again  de- 
manding indignantly,  "How  dared  he!" 

She  went  straight  to  her  room  when  she  got 
in,  and,  like  Mr.  Withells,  she  went  and  looked 
at  herself  in  the  glass. 

Unlike  Mr.  Withells,  she  saw  nothing  there 
to  give  her  any  satisfaction.  She  shook  her 
head  at  the  person  in  the  glass  and  said  aloud: 

"If  that's  all  you  get  by  trying  to  be  sensible, 
the  sooner  you  become  a  drivelling  idiot  the 
better  for  your  peace  of  mind — and  your 
vanity." 

The  person  in  the  glass  shook  her  head  back 
at  Jan,  and  Jan  turned  away  thoroughly  dis- 
gusted with  such  a  futile  sort  of  in  quoque. 


260 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ANOTHER  WAY  OF  LOVE 

1V/TEG  and  the  children,  returning  from  then: 
***•  tea-party  at  the  vicarage,  were  stopped 
continually  in  their  journey  through  the  main 
street  by  friendly  folk  who  wanted  to  greet  the 
children.  It  was  quite  a  triumphal  progress, 
and  Meg  was  feeling  particularly  proud  that 
afternoon,  for  her  charges,  including  William, 
had  all  behaved  beautifully.  Little  Fay  had 
refrained  from  snatching  other  children's  be- 
longings with  the  cool  remark,  "Plitty  little 
Fay  would  like  'at";  Tony  had  been  quite  merry 
and  approachable;  and  William  had  offered 
paws  and  submitted  to  continual  pullings,  push- 
ings  and  draggings  with  exemplary  patience. 

Once  through  the  friendly,  dignified  old  street, 
they  reached  the  main  road,  which  was  bordered 
by  rough  grass  sloping  to  a  ditch  surmounted 
by  a  thick  thorn  hedge.  They  were  rather  late, 
and  Meg  was  wheeling  little  Fay  as  fast  as  she 
could,  Tony  trotting  beside  her  to  keep  up, 
when  a  motor  horn  was  sounded  behind  them 
and  a  large  car  came  along  at  a  good  speed. 
They  were  all  well  to  the  side  of  the  road,  but 
William — with  the  perverse  stupidity  of  the 
young  dog — above  all,  of  the  young  bull-terrier 
— chose  that  precise  moment  to  gambol  aim- 

261 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

lessly  right  into  the  path  of  the  swiftly-coming 
motor,  just  as  it  seemed  right  upon  him;  and 
this,  regardless  of  terrified  shouts  from  Meg  and 
the  children,  frantic  sounding  of  the  horn  and 
violent  language  from  the  driver  of  the  car. 

It  seemed  that  destruction  must  inevitably 
overtake  William  when  the  car  swerved  violently 
as  the  man  ran  it  down  the  sloping  bank,  where 
it  stuck,  leaving  William,  unscathed  and  rather 
alarmed  by  all  the  clamour,  to  run  back  to  his 
family. 

Meg  promptly  whacked  him  as  hard  as  she 
could,  whereupon,  much  surprised,  he  turned 
over  on  his  back,  waving  four  paws  feebly  in 
the  air. 

"Why  don't  you  keep  your  dog  at  the  side?" 
the  man  shouted  with  very  natural  irritation  as 
he  descended  from  his  seat. 

"He's  a  naughty — stupid — puppy,"  Meg  ejacu- 
lated between  the  whacks.  "It  wasn't  your 
fault  in  the  least,  and  it  was  awfully  good  of  you 
to  avoid  him." — Whack — whack. 

The  man  started  a  little  as  she  spoke  and 
came  across  the  road  towards  them. 

Meg  raised  a  flushed  face  from  her  castigation 
of  William,  but  the  pretty  colour  faded  quickly 
when  she  saw  who  the  stranger  was. 

"Meg !"  he  exclaimed.    "  You /" 

For  a  tense  moment  they  stared  at  one  an- 
other, while  the  children  stared  at  the  stranger. 
He  was  certainly  a  handsome  man;  melancholy, 
"interesting."  Pale,  with  regular  features  and 
sleepy,  smallish  eyes  set  very  near  together. 

262 


Another  Way  of  Love 

"If  you  knew  how  I  have  searched  for  you," 
he  said. 

His  voice  was  his  great  charm,  and  would 
have  made  his  fortune  on  the  stage.  It  could 
convey  so  much,  could  be  so  tender  and  beseech- 
ing, so  charged  with  deepest  sadness,  so  musical 
always. 

"Your  search  cannot  have  been  very  arduous," 
Meg  answered  drily.  "  There  has  never  been 
any  mystery  about  my  movements."  And  she 
looked  him  straight  in  the  face. 

"At  first,  I  was  afraid  ...  I  did  not  try  to 
find  you." 

"You  were  well-advised." 

"Who  is  'at  sahib?"  little  Fay  interrupted 
impatiently.  "Let  us  go  home."  She  had  no 
use  for  any  sahib  who  ignored  her  presence. 

"Yes,  we'd  better  be  getting  on,"  Meg  said 
hurriedly,  and  seized  the  handle  of  the  pram. 

But  he  stood  right  in  their  path. 

"You  were  very  cruel,"  the  musical  voice 
went  on.  "You  never  seemed  to  give  a  thought 
to  all  I  was  suffering." 

Meg  met  the  sleepy  eyes,  that  used  to  thrill 
her  very  soul,  with  a  look  of  scornful  amusement 
in  hers  that  was  certainly  the  very  last  expres- 
sion he  had  ever  expected  to  see  in  them. 

She  had  always  dreaded  this  moment. 

Realising  the  power  this  man  had  exercised 
over  her,  she  always  feared  that  should  she  meet 
him  again  the  old  glamour  would  surround  him; 
the  old  domination  be  reasserted.  She  forgot 
that  in  five  years  one's  standards  change. 

263 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Now  that  she  did  meet  him  she  discovered 
that  he  held  no  bonds  with  which  to  bind  her. 
That  what  she  had  dreaded  was  a  chimera.  The 
real  Walter  Brooke,  the  moment  he  appeared  in 
the  flesh,  destroyed  the  image  memory  had  set 
up;  and  Meg  straightened  her  slender  shoulders 
as  though  a  heavy  burden  had  dropped  from 
them. 

The  whole  thing  passed  like  a  flash. 

"You  were  very  cruel,"  he  repeated. 

"There  is  no  use  going  into  all  that,"  Meg 
answered  in  a  cheerful,  matter-of-fact  tone. 
"Good-bye,  Mr.  Brooke.  We  are  most  grateful 
to  you  for  not  running  over  William,  who  is," 
here  she  raised  her  voice  for  the  benefit  of  the 
culprit,  "a  naughty — tiresome  dog." 

"But  you  can't  leave  me  like  this.  When  can 
I  see  you  again — there  is  so  much  I  want  to 
explain  .  .  ." 

"But  I  don't  want  any  explanations,  thank 
you.  Come  children,  we  must  go." 

"Meg,  listen  .  .  .  surely  you  have  some  little 
feeling  of  kindness  towards  me  .  .  .  after  all 
that  happened  ..." 

He  put  his  hand  on  Meg's  arm  to  detain  her, 
and  William,  who  had  never  been  known  to 
show  enmity  to  human  creature,  gave  a  deep 
growl  and  bristled.  A  growl  so  ominous  and 
threatening  that  Meg  hastily  loosed  the  pram 
and  caught  him  by  the  collar  with  both  hands. 

Tony  saw  that  Meg  was  flustered  and  uncom- 
fortable. "Why  does  he  not  go?"  he  asked. 
"I  thought  he  was  a  sahib,  but  I  suppose  he  is 

264 


Another  Way  of  Love 

the  gharri-wallah.  We  have  thanked  him — 
does  he  want  backsheesh?  Give  him  a  rupee." 

"He  does  want  backsheesh,"  the  deep,  musical 
voice  went  on — "a  little  pity,  a  little  common 
kindness." 

It  was  an  embarrassing  situation.  William  was 
straining  at  his  collar  and  growling  like  an  in- 
cipient thunderstorm. 

"We  have  thanked  you,"  Tony  said  again 
with  dignity.  "We  have  no  money,  or  we  would 
reward  you.  If  you  like  to  call  at  the  house, 
Auntie  Jan  always  has  money." 

The  man  smiled  pleasantly  at  Tony. 

"Thank  you,  young  man.  You  have  told  me 
exactly  what  I  wanted  to  know.  So  you  are 
with  your  friends  ?  " 

"I  can't  hold  this  dog  much  longer,"  Meg 
gasped.  "If  you  don't  go — you'll  get  bitten." 

William  ceased  to  growl,  for  far  down  the  road 
he  had  heard  a  footstep  that  he  knew.  He  still 
strained  at  his  collar,  but  it  was  hi  a  direction 
that  led  away  from  Mr.  Walter  Brooke.  Meg 
let  go  and  William  swung  off  down  the  road. 

"Shall  we  all  have  a  lide  in  loo  ghalli?"  little 
Fay  asked — it  seemed  to  her  sheer  waste  of  time 
to  stand  arguing  in  the  road  when  a  good  car 
was  waiting  empty.  The  children  called  every 
form  of  conveyance  a  "gharri." 

"We  shall  meet  again,"  said  this  persistent 
man.  "You  can't  put  me  off  like  this." 

He  raised  his  voice,  for  he  was  angry,  and  its 
clear  tones  carried  far  down  the  quiet  road. 

"There's  Captain  Middleton  with  William," 
265 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Tony  said  suddenly.  "Perhaps  he  has  some 
money." 

Meg  paled  and  crimsoned,  and  with  hands 
that  trembled  started  to  push  the  pram  at  a 
great  pace. 

The  man  went  back  to  his  car,  and  Tony,  re- 
gardless of  Meg's  call  to  him,  ran  to  meet  Wil- 
liam and  Miles. 

The  back  wheels  of  the  car  had  sunk  deeply 
into  the  soft  wet  turf.  It  refused  to  budge. 
Miles  came  up.  He  was  long-sighted,  and  he 
had  seen  very  well  who  it  was  that  was  talking 
to  Meg  in  the  road.  He  had  also  heard  Mr. 
Brooke's  last  remark. 

Till  lately  he  had  only  known  Walter  Brooke 
enough  to  dislike  him  vaguely.  Since  his  inter- 
view with  Mrs.  Trent  this  feeling  had  intensified 
to  such  an  extent  as  surprised  himself.  At  the 
present  moment  he  was  seething  with  rage,  but 
all  the  same  he  went  and  helped  to  get  the  car 
up  the  bank,  jacking  it  up,  and  setting  his  great 
shoulders  against  it  to  start  it  again. 

All  this  Tony  watched  with  deepest  interest, 
and  Meg  waited,  fuming,  a  little  way  down  the 
road,  for  she  knew  it  was  hopeless  to  get  Tony 
to  come  till  the  car  had  once  started.  Once  on 
the  hard  road  again,  it  bowled  swiftly  away 
and  to  her  immense  relief  passed  her  without 
stopping. 

She  saw  that  Miles  was  bringing  Tony,  and 
started  on  again  with  little  Fay. 

Fury  was  in  her  heart  at  Tony's  disobedience, 
and  behind  it  all  a  dull  ache  that  Miles  should 

266 


Another  Way  of  Love 

have  heard,  and  doubtless  misunderstood,  Walter 
Brooke's  last  remark. 

Tony  was  talking  eagerly  as  he  followed,  but 
she  was  too  upset  to  listen  till  suddenly  she 
heard  Miles  say  hi  a  tone  of  the  deepest  satis- 
faction, "Good  old  William." 

This  was  too  much. 

She  stopped  and  called  over  her  shoulder: 
"He  isn't  good  at  all;  he's  a  thoroughly  tire- 
some, disobedient,  badly- trained  dog." 

They  came  up  with  her  at  that,  and  William 
rolled  over  on  his  back,  for  he  knew  those  tones 
portended  further  punishment. 

"He's  an  ass  in  lots  of  ways,"  Miles  allowed, 
"but  he  is  an  excellent  judge  of  character." 

And  as  if  in  proof  of  this  William  righted  him- 
self and  came  cringing  to  Meg  to  try  and  lick  the 
hand  that  a  few  minutes  ago  had  thumped  him 
so  vigorously. 

Meg  looked  up  at  Miles  and  he  looked  down 
at  her,  and  his  gaze  was  pained,  kind  and  grave. 
His  eyes  were  large  and  well-opened  and  set 
wide  apart  in  his  broad  face.  Honest,  trust- 
worthy eyes  they  were. 

Very  gently  he  took  the  little  pram  from  her, 
for  he  saw  that  her  hands  were  trembling: 
"You've  had  a  fright,"  he  said.  "I  know  what 
it  is.  I  had  a  favourite  dog  run  over  once.  It's 
horrible,  it  takes  months  to  get  over  it.  I  can't 
think  why  dogs  are  so  stupid  about  motors  .  .  . 
must  have  been  a  near  shave  that  .  .  .  very 
decent  of  Brooke — he's  taken  pounds  off  his  car 
with  that  wrench." 

267 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

While  Miles  talked  he  didn't  look  at  Meg. 

"I  say,  little  Fay,"  he  suddenly  suggested, 
"wouldn't  you  like  to  walk  a  bit?"  and  he  lifted 
her  out.  "  There,  that's  better.  Now,  Miss 
Morton,  you  sit  down  a  minute;  you've  had  a 
shake,  you  know.  I'll  go  on  with  the  kiddies." 

Meg  was  feeling  a  horrible,  humiliating  desire 
to  cry.  Her  eyes  were  bright  with  unshed  tears, 
her  knees  refused  to  bear  her.  Thankfully  she 
sat  down  on  the  foot-board  of  Fay's  little  pram. 
The  tall  figure  between  the  two  little  ones  sud- 
denly grew  blurred  and  dim.  Furtively  she 
blew  her  nose  and  wiped  her  eyes.  They  were 
not  a  stone's  throw  from  the  lodge  at  Wren's 
End. 

How  absurd  to  be  sitting  there ! 

And  yet  she  didn't  feel  inclined  to  move  just 
yet. 

"'Ere,  my  dear,  you  take  a  sip  o'  water;  the 
gentleman's  told  me  all  about  it.  Them  sort 
o'  shocks  fair  turns  one  over." 

And  kind  Mrs.  Earley  was  beside  her,  holding 
out  a  thick  tumbler.  Meg  drank  the  deliciously 
cold  water  and  arose  refreshed. 

And  somehow  the  homely  comfort  of  Mrs. 
Barley's  presence  made  her  realise  wherein  lay 
the  essential  difference  between  these  two  men. 

"He  still  treats  me  like  a  princess,"  she 
thought,  "even  though  he  thinks  .  .  .  Oh,  what 
can  he  think?"  and  Meg  gave  a  little  sob. 

"There,  there!"  said  Mrs.  Earley,  "don't  you 
take  on  no  more,  Miss.  The  dear  dog  bain't 
'urted  not  a  'air  of  him.  'E  cum  frolicking  in 

268 


Another  Way  of  Love 

that  friendly — I  sometimes  wonders  if  there  do 
be  anyone  as  William  'ud  ever  bite.  'E  ain't 
much  of  a  watchdog,  I  fear." 

"He  nearly  bit  someone  this  afternoon,"  Meg 
said. 

"Well,  I'm  not  sorry  to  yer  it.  It  don't  do 
for  man  nor  beast  to  be  too  trustful — not  in  this 
world  it  don't." 

At  the  drive  gate  Miles  was  standing. 

Mrs.  Earley  took  the  pram  with  her  for  Earley 
to  clean,  and  Meg  and  Miles  walked  on  together. 

"I'm  sorry  you've  had  this  upset,"  he  said. 
"I've  talked  to  William  like  a  father." 

"It  wasn't  only  William,"  Meg  murmured. 

They  were  close  to  the  house,  and  she  stopped. 

"Good  night,  Captain  Middleton.  I  must  go 
and  put  my  children  to  bed;  we're  late." 

"I  don't  want  to  seem  interfering,  Miss 
Morton,  but  don't  you  let  anyone  bully  you  into 
picking  up  an  acquaintance  you'd  rather  drop." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Meg,  "one  always  has  to 
pay  for  the  things  one  has  done." 

"Well,  yes,  sooner  or  later;  but  it's  silly  to 
pay  Jew  prices." 

"Ah,"  said  Meg,  "you've  never  been  poor 
enough  to  go  to  the  Jews,  so  you  can't  tell." 

Miles  walked  slowly  back  to  Amber  Guiting 
that  warm  May  evening.  He  had  a  good  deal 
to  think  over,  for  he  had  come  to  a  momentous 
decision.  When  he  thought  of  Meg  as  he  had 
just  seen  her — small  and  tremulous  and  tearful 
— he  clenched  his  big  hands  and  made  a  sound 

269 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

in  his  throat  not  unlike  William's  growl.  When 
he  pictured  her  angry  onslaught  upon  William, 
he  laughed.  But  the  outcome  of  his  reflections 
was  this — that  whether  in  the  past  she  had  really 
done  anything  that  put  her  in  Walter  Brooke's 
power,  or  whether  he  was  right  to  trust  to  that 
intangible  quality  in  her  that  seemed  to  give 
the  direct  lie  to  the  worst  of  Mrs.  Trent's  story, 
Meg  appeared  to  him  to  stand  in  need  of  some 
hefty  chap  as  a  buffer  between  her  and  the  hard 
world,  and  he  was  very  desirous  of  being  that 
same  for  Meg. 

His  grandfather,  "Mutton-Pie  Middleton,"  had 
married  one  of  his  own  waitresses  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  he  found  she  was  "the  lass  for 
him" — and  he  might,  so  the  Doncaster  folk 
thought,  have  looked  a  good  deal  higher  for  a 
wife,  for  he  was  a  "warm"  man  at  the  time. 
Miles  strongly  resembled  his  grandfather.  He 
was  somewhat  ruefully  aware  that  in  appear- 
ance there  was  but  little  of  the  Keills  about  him. 
He  could  just  remember  the  colossal  old  man 
who  must  have  weighed  over  twenty  stone  in 
his  old  age,  and  Miles,  hitherto,  had  refused  to 
buy  a  motor  for  his  own  use  because  he  knew 
that  if  he  was  to  keep  his  figure  he  must  walk, 
and  walk  a  lot. 

Like  his  grandfather,  he  was  now  perfectly 
sure  of  himself;  Meg  "was  the  lass  for  him"; 
but  he  was  by  no  means  equally  sure  of  her. 
By  some  infallible  delicacy  of  instinct — and  this 
he  certainly  did  not  get  from  the  Middletons — 
he  knew  that  what  the  world  would  regard  as  a 

270 


Another  Way  of  Love 

magnificent  match  for  Meg,  might  be  the  very 
circumstance  that  would  destroy  his  chance 
with  her.  The  Middletons  were  all  keenly  alive 
to  the  purchasing  powers  of  money,  and  saw 
to  it  that  they  got  then-  money's  worth. 

All  the  same,  a  man's  a  man,  whether  he  be 
rich  or  poor,  and  Miles  still  remembered  the  way 
Meg  had  smiled  upon  him  the  first  tune  they 
ever  met.  Surely  she  could  never  have  smiled 
at  him  like  that  unless  she  had  rather  liked 
him. 

It  was  the  pathos  of  Meg  herself — not  the 
fact  that  she  had  to  work — that  appealed  to 
Miles.  That  she  should  cheerfully  earn  her  own 
living  instead  of  grousing  in  idleness  hi  a  meagre 
home  seemed  to  him  merely  a  matter  of  common 
sense.  He  knew  that  if  he  had  to  do  it  he  could 
earn  his,  and  the  one  thing  he  could  neither 
tolerate  nor  understand  about  a  good  many  of 
his  Keills  relations  was  their  preference  for  any 
form  of  assistance  to  honest  work.  He  helped 
them  generously  enough,  but  hi  his  heart  of 
hearts  he  despised  them,  though  he  did  not  con- 
fess this  even  to  himself. 

As  he  drew  near  the  Manor  House  he  saw 
Lady  Mary  walking  up  and  down  outside,  evi- 
dently waiting  for  him. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Miles?"  she  asked, 
impatiently.  "Pen  has  been  here,  and  wanted 
specially  to  see  you,  but  she  couldn't  stay  any 
longer,  as  it's  such  a  long  run  back.  She  motored 
over  from  Malmesbury." 

"What  did  she  want?"  Miles  asked.  "She's 
271 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

always  in  a  stew  about  something.     One  of  her 
Pekinese  got  pip,  or  what?" 

Lady  Mary  took  his  arm  and  turned  to  walk 
along  the  terrace.  "I  think,"  she  said,  and 
stopped.  "Where  were  you,  Miles?" 

"I  strolled  down  the  village  to  get  some  to- 
bacco, and  then  I  saw  a  chap  who'd  got  his  motor 
stuck,  and  helped  him,  and  then  ..."  Here 
Miles  looked  down  at  his  aunt,  who  looked  up 
at  him  apprehensively.  "I  caught  up  with  Miss 
Morton  and  the  children,  and  walked  back  to 
Wren's  End  with  them.  There,  Aunt  Mary, 
that's  a  categorical  history  of  my  time  since  tea." 

Lady  Mary  pressed  his  arm.  "  Miles,  dear, 
do  you  think  it's  quite  wise  to  be  seen  about  so 
much  with  little  Miss  Morton  .  .  .  wise  for  her 
I  mean?" 

"I  hope  I'm  not  the  sort  of  chap  it's  bad  to 
be  seen  about  with  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  not,  dear  Miles,  but,  you  see,  her 
position  ..." 

"What's  the  matter  with  her  position?" 

"Of  course  I  know  it's  most  creditable  of  her 
and  all  that  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  when  a  girl  has  to 
go  out  as  a  sort  of  nursery  governess,  it  is  dif- 
ferent, isn't  it,  dear?  I  mean  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Mary,  I'm  awfully  interested — 
different  from  what?" 

"From  girls  who  lead  the  sheltered  life,  girls 
who  don't  work  .  .  .  girls  of  our  own  class." 

"I  don't  know,"  Miles  said  thoughtfully, 
"that  I  should  say  Pen,  for  instance,  lives  ex- 
actly a  sheltered  life,  should  you?" 

272 


Another  Way  of  Love 

"Pen  is  married." 

"Yes,  but  before  she  was  married  ...  eh, 
Aunt  Mary?  Be  truthful,  now." 

Miles  held  his  aunt's  arm  tightly  within  his, 
and  he  stooped  and  looked  into  her  face. 

"And  does  the  fact  that  Pen  is  married  ex- 
plain or  excuse  her  deplorable  taste  in  men? 
Which  does  it  do,  Aunt  Mary?  Speak  up, 
now." 

Lady  Mary  laughed.  "I'm  not  here  to  de- 
fend Pen;  I'm  here  to  get  your  answer  as  to 
whether  you  think  it's  .  .  .  quite  fair  to  make 
that  little  Miss  Morton  conspicuous  by  running 
after  her  and  making  her  the  talk  of  the  entire 
county,  for  that's  what  you're  doing." 

"What  good  old  Pen  has  been  telling  you  I'm 
doing,  I  suppose." 

"I  had  my  own  doubts  about  it  without  any 
help  from  Pen  .  .  .  but  she  said  Alec  Pottinger 
had  been  talking  ..." 

"Pottinger's  an  ass." 

"He  doesn't  talk  much,  anyhow,  Miles,  and 
she  felt  if  he  said  anything  .  .  ." 

"Look  here,  Aunt  Mary,  how's  a  chap  to  go 
courting  seriously  if  he  doesn't  run  after  a  girl? 
...  he  can't  work  it  from  a  distance  .  .  .  not 
unless  he's  one  of  those  poet  chaps,  and  puts 
letters  hi  hollow  trees  and  so  on.  And  you  don't 
seem  to  have  provided  any  hollow  trees  about 
here." 

"Courting  .  .  .  seriously!"  Lady  Mary  re- 
peated with  real  horror  in  her  tones.  "Oh, 
Miles,  you  can't  mean  that!" 

273 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"  Surely  you'd  not  prefer  I  meant  the  other 
thing?" 

"But,  Miles  dear,  think!" 

"I  have  thought,  and  I've  thought  it  out." 

"You  mean  you  want  to  marry  her?" 

Lady  Mary  spoke  in  an  awed  whisper. 

"Just  exactly  that,  and  I  don't  care  who 
knows  it;  but  I'm  not  at  all  sure  she  wants  to 
marry  me  .  .  .  that's  why  I  don't  want  to  rush 
my  fences  and  get  turned  down.  I'm  a  heavy 
chap  to  risk  a  fall,  Aunt  Mary." 

"Oh,  Miles!  this  is  worse  than  anything  Pen 
even  dreamt  of." 

"What  is?  If  you  mean  that  she  probably 
won't  have  me — I'm  with  you." 

"Of  course  she'd  jump  at  you — any  girl  would. 
.  .  .  But  a  little  nursemaid !" 

"Come  now,  Aunt  Mary,  you  know  very  well 
she's  just  as  good  as  I  am;  better,  probably,  for 
she's  got  no  pies  nor  starch  in  her  pedigree.  Her 
father's  a  Major  and  her  mother  was  of  quite 
good  family — and  she's  got  lots  of  rich,  stingy 
relations  .  .  .  and  she  doesn't  sponge  on  'em. 
What's  the  matter  with  her?" 

"Please  don't  do  anything  in  a  hurry,  dear 
Miles." 

"I  shan't,  if  you  and  Pen  and  the  blessed 
'county,'  with  its  criticism  and  gossip,  don't 
drive  me  into  it  ...  but  the  very  first  word 
you  either  say  or  repeat  to  me  against  Miss 
Morton,  off  I  go  to  her  and  to  the  old  Major. 
...  So  now  we  understand  each  other,  Aunt 
Mary— eh?" 

274 


Another  Way  of  Love 

"  There  are  things  you  ought  to  know,  Miles." 

"You  may  depend,"  said  Miles  grimly,  "that 
anything  I  ought  to  know  I  shall  be  told  .  .  . 
over  and  over  again  .  .  .  confound  it.  ... 
And  remember,  Aunt  Mary,  that  what  I've  told 
you  is  not  hi  the  least  private.  Tell  Pen,  tell 
Mrs.  Fream,  tell  Withells,  but  just  leave  me  to 
tell  Miss  Ross,  that's  all  I  beg." 

"Miles,  I  shall  tell  nobody,  for  I  hope  ...  I 
hope- 

"  'Hope  told  a  flattering  tale,'  "  said  Miles, 
and  kissed  his  aunt  .  .  .  but  to  himself  he  said: 
"I've  shut  their  mouths  for  a  day  or  two  any- 
way." 


275 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   ENCAMPMENT 

IT  was  the  morning  of  the  first  Monday  in 
June,  and  Tony  had  wandered  out  into  the 
garden  all  by  himself.  Monday  mornings  were 
very  busy,  and  once  Clipture  was  over  Jan  and 
Meg  became  socially  useless  to  any  self-respect- 
ing boy. 

There  was  all  the  washing  to  sort  and  divide 
into  two  large  heaps:  what  might  be  sent  to 
Mrs.  Chitt  in  the  village,  and  what  might  be 
kept  for  the  ministrations  of  one  Mrs.  Mumford, 
who  came  every  Monday  to  Wren's  End.  And 
this  division  was  never  arrived  at  without  a  good 
deal  of  argument  between  Jan  and  Meg. 

If  Jan  had  had  her  way,  Mrs.  Mumford's  heap 
would  have  been  very  small  indeed,  and  would 
have  consisted  chiefly  of  socks  and  handkerchiefs. 
If  Meg  had  had  hers,  nothing  at  all  would  have 
gone  to  Mrs.  Chitt.  Usually,  too,  Hannah  was 
called  hi  as  final  arbitrator,  and  she  generally 
sided  with  Meg.  Little  Fay  took  the  greatest 
interest  in  the  whole  ceremony,  chattered  con- 
tinually, and  industriously  mixed  up  the  heaps 
when  no  one  was  looking. 

At  such  times  Tony  was  of  the  opinion  that 
there  were  far  too  many  women  in  the  world. 

276 


The  Encampment 

On  this  particular  morning,  too,  he  felt  injured 
because  of  something  that  had  happened  at 
breakfast. 

It  was  always  a  joy  to  Meg  and  Jan  that  what- 
ever poor  Fay  might  have  left  undone  in  the 
matter  of  disciplining  her  children,  she  had  at 
least  taught  them  to  eat  nicely.  Little  Fay's 
management  of  a  spoon  was  a  joy  to  watch.  The 
dimpled  baby  hand  was  so  deft,  the  turn  of  the 
plump  wrist  so  sure  and  purposeful.  She  never 
spilled  or  slopped  her  food  about.  Its  journey 
from  bowl  to  little  red  mouth  was  calculated  and 
assured.  Both  children  had  a  horror  of  anything 
sticky,  and  would  refuse  jam  unless  it  was  "well 
covelled  in  a  sangwidge." 

That  very  morning  Jan  and  Meg  exchanged 
congratulatory  glances  over  their  well-behaved 
charges,  sitting  side  by  side. 

Then,  all  at  once,  with  a  swift,  sure  movement, 
little  Fay  stretched  up  and  deposited  a  spoonful 
of  exceedingly  hot  porridge  exactly  on  the  top 
of  her  brother's  head,  with  a  smart  tap. 

Tony's  hair  was  always  short,  and  had  been 
cut  on  Saturday,  and  the  hot  mixture  ran  down 
into  his  eyes,  which  filled  him  with  rage. 

He  tried  to  get  out  of  his  high  chair,  exclaim- 
ing angrily,  "Let  me  get  at  her  to  box  her!" 

Jan  held  him  down  with  one  hand  while  she 
wiped  away  the  offending  mess  with  the  other, 
and  all  the  tune  Tony  cried  in  crescendo,  "Let 
me  get  at  her!" 

Little  Fay,  quite  unmoved,  continued  to  eat 
her  porridge  with  studied  elegance,  and  in  gently 

277 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

reproachful  tones  remarked,   "Tony  velly  closs 
littoo  boy." 

Jan  and  Meg,  who  wanted  desperately  to 
laugh,  tried  hard  to  look  shocked,  and  Meg 
asked,  "What  on  earth  possessed  you  to  do 
such  a  thing?" 

"Tony's  head  so  shiny  and  smoove." 

Tony  rubbed  the  shiny  head  ruefully. 

"Can't  I  do  nuffin  to  her?"  he  demanded. 

"No,"  his  sister  answered  firmly,  "loo  can't, 
'cos  I'm  plitty  littoo  Fay." 

"Can't  I  plop  some  on  her  head?"  he  persisted. 

"It  certainly  seems  unfair,"  Jan  said  though  t- 
fuUy,  "but  I  think  you'd  better  not." 

"It  is  unfair,"  Tony  grumbled. 

Jan  loosed  his  hands.  "Now,"  she  said,  "you 
can  do  what  you  like." 

Little  Fay  leaned  towards  her  brother,  smiling 
her  irresistible,  dimpled,  twinkling  smile,  and 
held  out  a  spoonful  of  her  porridge. 

"Deah  littoo  Tony,"  she  cooed,  "taste  it." 

And  Tony  meekly  accepted  the  peace-offering. 

"You  haven't  smacked  her,"  Jan  remarked. 

Tony  sighed.  "It's  too  late  now — I  don't 
feel  like  it  any  more." 

All  the  same  he  felt  aggrieved  as  he  set  out  to 
seek  Earley  in  the  kitchen  garden. 

Earley  was  not  to  be  found.  He  saw  Mrs. 
Mumford  already  hanging  kitchen  cloths  on  a 
line  in  the  orchard,  but  he  felt  no  desire  for  Mrs. 
Mumford's  society. 

Tony's  tormented  soul  sought  for  something 
soothing. 

278 


The  Encampment 

The  garden  was  pleasant,  but  it  wasn't  enough. 

Ah !  he'd  got  it ! 

He'd  go  to  the  river;  all  by  himself  he'd  go, 
and  not  tell  anybody.  He'd  look  over  the  bridge 
into  that  cool  deep  pool  and  perhaps  that  big 
fat  trout  would  be  swimming  about.  What  was 
it  he  had  heard  Captain  Middleton  say  last  time 
he  was  down  at  Amber  Guiting?  "The  May- 
fly was  up." 

He  had  seemed  quite  delighted  about  it,  there- 
fore it  must  mean  something  pleasant. 

After  all,  on  a  soft,  not  too  sunny  morning  in 
early  June,  with  a  west  wind  rustling  the  leaves 
in  the  hedges,  the  world  was  not  such  a  bad 
place;  for  even  if  there  were  rather  too  many 
women  in  it,  there  were  dogs  and  rivers  and 
country  roads  where  adventurous  boys  could 
see  life  for  themselves. 

William  agreed  with  Tony  in  his  dislike  of 
Monday  mornings.  He  went  and  lay  on  the 
front  door  mat  so  that  he  was  more  than  ready 
to  accompany  anyone  who  happened  to  be  going 
out. 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  bridge  all  sense 
of  injury  had  vanished,  and  buoyant  expectation 
had  taken  its  place. 

Three  men  were  fishing.  One  was  far  in  the 
distance,  one  about  three  hundred  yards  up 
stream,  and  one  Tony  recognised  as  Mr. 
Dauncey,  landlord  of  "The  Full  Basket,"  the 
square  white  house  standing  in  its  neat  garden 
just  on  the  other  side  of  the  bridge.  The  fourth 
gentleman,  who  had  forgotten  his  hat,  and  was 

279 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

clad  in  a  holland  smock,  sandals,  and  no  stock- 
ings, leaned  over  luxuriously,  with  his  elbows 
on  the  low  wall  and  his  bare  legs  thrust  out. 
He  was  very  still,  even  trying  not  to  twitch  when 
William  licked  his  bare  legs,  as  he  did  at  inter- 
vals just  to  show  he  was  there  on  guard. 

There  had  been  heavy  rain  hi  the  night  and 
the  water  was  discoloured.  Nobody  noticed 
Tony,  and  for  about  an  hour  nothing  happened. 
Then  Mr.  Dauncey  got  a  rise.  The  rigid  little 
figure  on  the  bridge  leaned  further  over  as  Mr. 
Dauncey's  reel  screamed  and  he  followed  his 
cast  down  stream. 

Presently,  with  a  sense  of  irritation,  Tony  was 
aware  of  footsteps  coming  over  the  bridge.  He 
felt  that  he  simply  could  not  bear  it  just  then  if 
anyone  leaned  over  beside  him  and  talked.  The 
footsteps  came  up  behind  him  and  passed;  and 
William,  who  was  lying  between  Tony's  legs 
and  the  wall,  squeezed  as  close  to  him  as  possible, 
gave  a  low  growl. 

"Hush,  William,  naughty  dog!"  Tony  whis- 
pered crossly. 

William  hushed,  and  drooped  as  he  always 
did  when  rebuked. 

It  occurred  to  Tony  to  look  after  this  amazing 
person  who  could  cross  a  bridge  without  stopping 
to  look  over  when  a  reel  was  joyfully  proclaim- 
ing that  some  fisherman  was  having  luck. 

It  was  a  man,  and  he  walked  as  though  he 
were  footsore  and  tired.  There  was  something 
dejected  and  shabby  in  his  appearance,  and  his 
clothes  looked  odd  somehow  in  Amber  Guiting. 

280 


The  Encampment 

Tony  stared  after  the  stranger,  and  gradually 
he  realised  that  there  was  something  familiar 
in  the  back  of  the  tall  figure  that  walked  so  slowly 
and  yet  seemed  trying  to  walk  fast. 

The  man  had  a  stick  and  evidently  leant  upon 
it  as  he  went.  He  wore  an  overcoat  and  carried 
nothing  in  his  hand. 

Mr.  Dauncey's  reel  chuckled  and  one  of  the 
other  anglers  ran  towards  him  with  a  landing-net. 

But  Tony  still  stared  after  the  man.  Pres- 
ently, with  a  deep  sigh,  he  started  to  follow  him. 

Just  once  he  turned,  hi  tune  to  see  that  Mr. 
Dauncey  had  landed  his  trout. 

The  sun  came  out  from  behind  the  clouds. 
"The  Full  Basket,"  the  river,  brown  and  rippled, 
the  bridge,  the  two  men  talking  eagerly  on  the 
bank  below,  the  muddy  road  growing  cream- 
coloured  in  patches  as  it  dried,  were  all  photo- 
graphed upon  Tony's  mind.  When  he  started 
to  follow  the  stranger  he  was  out  of  sight,  but 
now  Tony  trotted  steadily  forward  and  did  not 
look  round  again. 

William  was  glad.  He  had  been  lying  in  a 
puddle,  and,  like  little  Fay,  he  preferred  "a  dly 
place." 

Meanwhile,  at  Wren's  End  the  washing  had 
taken  a  long  time  to  count  and  to  divide.  There 
seemed  a  positively  endless  number  of  little 
smocks  and  frocks  and  petticoats  and  pinafores, 
and  Meg  wanted  to  keep  them  all  for  Mrs.  Mum- 
ford  to  wash,  declaring  that  she  (Meg)  could 
starch  and  iron  them  beautifully.  This  was 
quite  true.  She  could  iron  very  well,  as  she  did 

281 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

everything  she  undertook  to  do.  But  Jan  knew 
that  it  tired  her  dreadfully,  that  the  heat  and 
the  wielding  of  the  heavy  iron  were  very  bad  for 
her,  and  after  much  argument  and  many  insult- 
ing remarks  from  Meg  as  to  Jan's  obstinacy  and 
extravagance  generally,  the  things  were  divided. 
Meg  put  on  little  Fay's  hat  and  swept  her  out 
into  the  garden;  whereupon  Jan  plunged  into 
Mrs.  Mumford's  heap,  removed  all  the  things  to 
be  ironed  that  could  not  be  tackled  by  Anne 
Chitt,  stuffed  them  into  Mrs.  Chitt's  basket, 
fastened  it  firmly  and  rang  for  Anne  and  Hannah 
to  carry  the  things  away. 

She  washed  her  hands  and  put  on  her  garden- 
ing gloves  preparatory  to  going  out,  humming 
a  gay  little  snatch  of  song;  and  as  she  ran  down 
the  wide  staircase  she  heard  the  bell  ring,  and 
saw  the  figure  of  a  man  standing  hi  the  open 
doorway. 

The  maids  were  carrying  the  linen  down  the 
back  stairs,  and  she  went  across  the  hall  to  see 
what  he  wanted. 

"Well,  Jan,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  sounded 
weak  and  tired.  "Here  I  am  at  last." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  as  she  took  it  she 
felt  how  hot  and  dry  it  was. 

"Come  in,  Hugo,"  she  said  quietly.  "Why 
didn't  you  let  me  know  you  were  coming,  and 
I'd  have  met  you." 

The  man  followed  her  as  she  led  the  way  into 
the  cool,  fragrant  drawing-room.  He  paused 
in  the  doorway  and  passed  his  hand  across  his 
eyes.  "It  does  bring  it  all  back,"  he  said. 

282 


The  Encampment 

He  sat  down  in  a  deep  chair  and  leaned  his 
head  against  the  back,  closing  his  eyes.  Jan 
saw  that  he  was  thin  to  emaciation,  and  that  he 
looked  very  ill;  shabby,  too,  and  broken. 

The  instinct  of  the  nurse  that  exists  in  any 
woman  worth  her  salt  was  roused  in  Jan.  All 
the  passionate  indignation  she  had  felt  against 
her  brother-in-law  was  merged  at  the  moment 
in  pity  and  anxiety. 

"Hugo,"  she  said  gently,  "I  fear  you  are  ill. 
Have  you  had  any  breakfast?" 

"I  came  by  the  early  train  to  avoid  ordering 
breakfast;  I  couldn't  have  paid  for  it.  I'd  only 
enough  for  my  fare.  Jan,  I  haven't  a  single 
rupee  left." 

He  sat  forward  in  the  chair  with  his  hands  on 
the  arms  and  closed  his  eyes  again. 

Jan  looked  keenly  at  the  handsome,  haggard 
face.  There  was  no  pretence  here.  The  man 
was  gravely  ill.  His  lips  (Jan  had  always  mis- 
trusted his  well-shaped  mouth  because  it  would 
never  really  shut)  were  dry  and  cracked  and  dis- 
coloured, the  cheekbones  sharp,  and  there  was 
that  deep  hollow  at  the  back  of  the  neck  that  al- 
ways betrays  the  man  in  ill-health. 

She  went  to  him  and  pressed  him  back  in  the 
chair. 

"What  do  you  generally  do  when  you  have 
fever?"  she  asked. 

"Go  to  bed — if  there  is  a  bed;  and  take 
quinine  and  drink  hot  tea." 

"That's  what  you'd  better  do  now.  Where 
are  your  things?" 

283 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"There's  a  small  bag  at  the  station.  They 
promised  to  send  it  up.  I  couldn't  carry  it  and 
I  had  no  money  to  pay  a  boy.  I  came  the  long 
way  round,  Jan,  not  through  the  village.  No 
one  recognised  me." 

"I'll  get  you  some  tea  at  once,  and  I  have 
quinine  hi  the  house.  Will  you  take  some  now?" 

Hugo  laughed.  "Your  quinine  would  be  of 
no  earthly  use  to  me,  but  I've  already  taken  it 
this  morning.  I've  got  some  here  in  my  pocket. 
The  minute  my  bag  comes  I'll  go  to  bed — if 
you  don't  mind." 

Someone  fumbled  at  the  handle  of  the  door, 
and  Tony,  followed  by  William,  appeared  on 
the  threshold. 

Hugo  Tancred  opened  his  eyes.  "Hullo!"  he 
said.  "Do  you  remember  me,  young  shaver?" 

Tony  came  into  the  room  holding  out  his 
hand.  "How  do  you  do?"  he  said  solemnly. 

Hugo  took  it  and  stared  at  his  son  with  strange 
glazed  eyes.  "You  look  fit  enough,  anyhow,"  he 
said,  and  dropped  the  little  hand. 

"I  came  as  quit  as  I  could,"  Tony  said  eagerly 
to  Jan.  "But  Mr.  Dauncey  caught  a  trout,  and 
I  had  to  wait  a  minute." 

"Good  heavens!"  Hugo  exclaimed  irritably. 
"Do  you  all  still  think  and  talk  about  nothing 
but  fishing?" 

"Come,"  said  Jan,  holding  out  her  hand  to 
Tony,  "and  we'll  go  and  see  about  some  break- 
fast for  Daddie." 

William,  who  had  been  sniffing  dubiously  at 
the  man  in  the  chair,  dashed  after  them. 

284 


The  Encampment 

As  they  crossed  the  hall  Tony  remarked  philo- 
sophically: "Daddie's  got  fever.  He'll  be  very 
cross,  then  he'll  be  very  sad,  and  then  he'll  want 
you  to  give  him  something,  and  if  you  do — 
p'raps  he'll  go  away." 

Jan  made  no  answer. 

Tony  followed  her  through  the  swing  door 
and  down  the  passage  to  speak  to  Hannah,  who 
was  much  moved  and  excited  when  she  heard 
Mr.  Tancred  had  arrived.  Hannah  was  full  of 
sympathy  for  the  "poor  young  widower,"  and 
though  she  could  have  wished  that  he  had  given 
them  notice  of  his  coming,  still,  she  supposed 
him  to  be  so  distracted  with  grief  that  he  forgot 
to  do  anything  of  the  kind.  She  and  Anne  Chitt 
went  there  and  then  to  make  up  his  bed,  while 
Jan  boiled  the  kettle  and  got  him  some  break- 
fast. 

While  she  was  doing  this  Meg  and  little  Fay 
came  round  to  the  back  to  look  for  Tony,  whom 
they  found  making  toast. 

"Who's  turn?"  asked  little  Fay,  while  Jan 
rapidly  explained  the  situation  to  Meg. 

"Your  Daddie's  come." 

Little  Fay  looked  rather  vague.  "What  sort 
of  a  Daddie?"  she  asked. 

"You  take  her  to  see  him,  Tony,  and  I'll  finish 
the  toast,"  said  Jan,  taking  the  fork  out  of  his 
hand. 

When  the  children  had  gone  Meg  said  slowly: 
"And  Mr.  Ledgard  comes  to-morrow?" 

"He  can't.  I  must  telegraph  and  put  him  off 
for  a  day  or  two.  Hugo  is  really  ill." 

285 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"I  shouldn't  put  him  off  long,  if  I  were  you." 
Jan  seized  the  tray:    "I'll  send  a  wire  now,  if 

you  and  the  children  will  take  it  down  to  the 

post-office  for  me." 

"Why  send  it  at  all?"  said  Meg.     "Let  him 


come." 


286 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

TACTICS 

TT  was  a  fortnight  since  Hugo  Tancred  arrived 
-*•  at  Wren's  End,  and  Jan  had  twice  put  off 
Peter's  visit. 

During  the  first  few  days  Hugo's  temperature 
remained  so  high  that  she  grew  thoroughly 
alarmed;  and  in  spite  of  his  protestations  that 
he  was  "quite  used  to  it,"  she  sent  for  the  doctor. 
Happily  the  doctor  in  his  youth  had  been  hi  the 
East  and  was  able  to  reassure  her.  His  opinion, 
too,  had  more  weight  with  Hugo  on  this  ac- 
count, and  though  he  grumbled  he  consented  to 
do  what  the  doctor  advised.  And  at  the  end  of 
a  week  Hugo  was  able  to  come  downstairs,  look- 
ing very  white  and  shaky.  He  lay  out  in  the 
garden  in  a  deck-chair  for  most  of  the  day  and 
managed  to  eat  a  good  many  of  the  nourishing 
dishes  Hannah  prepared  for  him. 

It  had  been  a  hard  tune  for  Jan,  as  Hugo  was 
not  an  invalid  who  excited  compassion  in  those 
who  had  to  wait  upon  him.  He  took  everything 
for  granted,  was  somewhat  morose  and  exacting, 
and  made  no  attempt  to  control  the  extreme 
irritability  that  so  often  accompanies  fever. 

When  the  fever  left  him,  however,  his  tone 
changed,  and  the  second  stage,  indicated  by 
Tony  as  "sad,"  set  in  with  severity. 

287 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

His  depression  was  positively  overwhelming, 
and  he  seemed  to  think  that  its  public  manifes- 
tation should  arouse  in  all  beholders  the  most 
poignant  and  respectful  sympathy. 

Poor  Jan  found  it  very  difficult  to  behave  in 
a  manner  at  all  calculated  to  satisfy  her  brother- 
in-law.  She  had  not,  so  far,  uttered  one  word 
of  reproach  to  him,  but  she  would  shrink  visibly 
when  he  tried  to  discuss  his  wife,  and  she  could 
not  even  pretend  to  believe  in  the  deep  sincerity 
of  a  grief  that  seemed  to  find  such  facile  solace 
in  expression.  The  mode  of  expression,  too,  in 
hackneyed,  commonplace  phrases,  set  her  teeth 
on  edge. 

She  knew  that  poor  Hugo — she  called  him 
"poor  Hugo"  just  then — thought  her  cold  and 
unsympathetic  because  she  rather  discouraged 
his  outpourings;  but  Fay's  death  was  too  lately- 
lived  a  tragedy  to  make  it  possible  for  her  to 
talk  of  it — above  all,  with  him;  and  after  several 
abortive  attempts  Hugo  gave  up  all  direct  en- 
deavour to  make  her. 

"You  are  terribly  Scotch,  Jan,"  he  said  one 
day.  "I  sometimes  wonder  whether  anything 
could  make  you  really  feel." 

Jan  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  contemptuous 
wonder  that  caused  him  to  redden  angrily,  but 
she  made  no  reply. 

He  was  her  guest,  he  was  a  broken  man,  and 
she  knew  well  that  they  had  not  yet  even  ap- 
proached their  real  difference. 

Two  people,  however,  took  Hugo's  attitude  of 
profound  dejection  in  the  way  he  expected  and 

288 


Tactics 

liked  it  to  be  taken.  These  were  Mr.  Withells 
and  Hannah. 

Mr.  Withells  did  not  bear  Jan  a  grudge  because 
of  her  momentary  lapse  from  good  manners.  In 
less  than  a  week  from  the  unfortunate  interview 
in  the  nut-walk  he  had  decided  that  she  could 
not  properly  have  understood  him;  and  that  he 
had,  perhaps,  sprung  upon  her  too  suddenly  the 
high  honour  he  held  in  store  for  her. 

So  back  he  came  in  his  neat  little  two-seater 
car  to  call  at  Wren's  End  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, and  Jan,  guiltily  conscious  that  she  had 
been  very  rude,  was  only  too  thankful  to  accept 
the  olive-branch  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was 
offered. 

He  took  to  coming  almost  as  often  as  before, 
and  was  thoroughly  interested  and  commiserat- 
ing when  he  heard  that  poor  Mrs.  Tancred's 
husband  had  come  home  from  India  and  been 
taken  ill  almost  immediately  on  arrival.  He 
sent  some  early  strawberries  grown  in  barrels 
in  the  houses,  and  with  them  a  note  conjuring 
Jan  "on  no  account  to  leave  them  in  the  sick- 
room overnight,  as  the  smell  of  fruit  was  so 
deleterious." 

Hannah  considered  Hugo's  impenetrable  gloom 
a  most  proper  and  husbandly  tribute  to  the  de- 
parted. She  felt  that  had  there  been  a  Mr. 
Hannah  she  could  not  have  wished  him  to  show 
more  proper  feeling  had  Providence  thought  fit 
to  snatch  her  from  his  side.  So  she  expressed 
her  admiration  in  the  strongest  of  soups,  the 
smoothest  of  custards,  and  the  most  succulent 

289 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

of  mutton-chops.  Gladly  would  she  have  com- 
manded Mrs.  Earley  to  slay  her  fattest  cockerels 
for  the  nourishment  of  "yon  poor  heartbroken 
young  man,"  but  that  she  remembered  (from 
her  experience  of  Fay's  only  visit)  that  no  one 
just  home  from  India  will  give  a  thank-you  for 
chickens. 

Jan  had  cause  to  bless  kind  Mr.  Withells,  for 
directly  Hugo  was  able  for  it,  he  came  with  his 
largest  and  most  comfortable  car,  driven  by  his 
trustworthy  chauffeur,  to  take  the  invalid  for  a 
run  right  into  Wiltshire.  He  pressed  Jan  to  go 
too,  but  she  pleaded  " things  to  see  to"  at  home. 

Hugo  had  seen  practically  nothing  of  Meg. 
She  was  fully  occupied  in  keeping  the  children 
out  of  their  father's  way.  Little  Fay  "pooah 
daddied"  him  when  they  happened  to  meet,  and 
Tony  stared  at  him  in  the  weighing,  measuring 
way  Hugo  found  so  trying,  but  Meg  neither 
looked  at  him  nor  did  she  address  any  remark 
whatever  to  him  unless  she  positively  could  not 
help  it. 

Meg  was  thoroughly  provoked  that  he  should 
have  chosen  to  turn  up  just  then.  She  had  been 
most  anxious  that  Peter  should  come.  Firstly, 
because,  being  sharply  observant,  she  had  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  his  visit  would  be  a  real 
pleasure  to  Jan,  and  secondly,  because  she  ar- 
dently desired  to  see  him  herself  that  she  might 
judge  whether  he  was  "at  all  good  enough." 

And  now  her  well-loved  Jan,  instead  of  look- 
ing her  best,  was  growing  thin  and  haggard, 
losing  her  colour,  and  her  sweet  serenity,  and  in 

290 


Tactics 

their  place  a  patient,  tired  expression  in  her  eyes 
that  went  to  Meg's  heart. 

She  had  hardly  seen  Jan  alone  for  over  a  week; 
for  since  Hugo  came  downstairs  Meg  had  taken 
all  her  meals  with  the  children  in  the  nursery, 
while  Jan  and  Hugo  had  theirs  in  the  rarely- 
used  dining-room.  The  girls  breakfasted  to- 
gether, as  Hugo  had  his  in  his  room,  but  as  the 
children  were  always  present  there  was  small 
chance  of  any  confidential  conversation. 

The  first  afternoon  Mr.  Withells  took  Hugo 
for  a  drive,  Meg  left  her  children  in  Barley's 
care  the  minute  she  heard  the  car  depart,  and 
went  to  look  for  Jan  hi  the  house. 

She  found  her  opening  all  the  windows  in  the 
dining-room.  Meg  shut  the  door  and  sat  on  the 
polished  table,  lit  a  cigarette  and  regarded  her 
own  pretty  swinging  feet  with  interest. 

"How  long  does  Mr.  Tancred  propose  to 
stay?"  she  asked. 

"How  can  I  tell,"  Jan  answered  wearily,  as 
she  sat  down  in  one  of  the  deep  window-seats. 
"He  has  nowhere  to  go  and  no  money  to  go  with; 
and,  so  far,  except  for  a  vague  allusion  to  some 
tea-plantation  in  Ceylon,  he  has  suggested  no 
plans.  Oh,  yes !  I  forgot,  there  was  something 
about  fruit-farming  or  vine-growing  in  Cali- 
fornia, but  I  fancy  considerable  capital  would 
be  needed  for  that." 

"And  how  much  longer  do  you  intend  to  keep 
Mr.  Ledgard  waiting  for  his  visit?" 

"It  would  be  small  pleasure  for  Mr.  Ledgard 
to  come  here  with  Hugo,  and  horrid  for  Hugo, 

291 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

for   he   knows   perfectly   well   what   Peter  .  .  . 
Mr.  Ledgard  thinks  of  him." 

"But  if  friend  Hugo  knew  Mr.  Ledgard  was 
coming,  might  it  not  have  an  accelerating  effect 
upon  his  movements?  You  could  give  him  his 
fare — single,  mind — to  Guernsey.  Let  him  go 
and  stay  with  his  people  for  a  bit." 

Jan  shook  her  head.  "I  can't  turn  him  out, 
Meg;  and  I'm  not  going  to  let  Mr.  Ledgard 
waste  his  precious  leave  on  an  unpleasant  visit. 
If  I  could  give  him  a  good  time  it  would  be  dif- 
ferent; but  after  all  he  did  for  us  while  we  were 
in  Bombay,  it  would  be  rank  ingratitude  to  let 
him  in  for  more  worries  at  home." 

"Perhaps  he  wouldn't  consider  them  worries. 
Perhaps  he'd  like  to  come." 

Jan's  strained  expression  relaxed  a  little  and 
she  smiled  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  Meg's  neat 
swinging  feet.  "He  says  he  would." 

"Well,  then,  take  him  at  his  word.  We  can 
turn  the  excellent  Withells  on  to  Hugo.  Let 
him  instruct  Hugo  in  the  importance  of  daily 
free  gymnastics  after  one's  bath  and  the  neces- 
sity for  windows  being  left  open  at  the  top  'day 
and  night,  but  especially  at  night.'  Let's  tell 
that  Peter  man  to  come." 

Jan  shook  her  head. 

"No,  I've  explained  the  situation  to  him  and 
begged  him  not  to  consider  us  any  more  for  the 
present.  We  must  think  of  the  maids  too.  You 
see,  Hugo  makes  a  good  deal  of  extra  work,  and 
I'm  afraid  Hannah  might  turn  grumpy  if  there 
was  yet  another  man  to  do  for." 

292 


Tactics 

Meg  thoughtfully  blew  beautiful  rings  of  smoke, 
carefully  poked  a  small  finger  exactly  into  the 
centre  of  each  and  continued  to  swing  her  feet  in 
silence. 

Jan  leaned  her  head  against  the  casement  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

Without  so  much  as  a  rustle  Meg  descended 
from  the  table.  She  went  over  to  Jan  and  dropped 
a  light  kiss  on  the  top  of  the  thick  wavy  hair 
that  was  so  nearly  white.  Jan  opened  her  tired 
eyes  and  smiled. 

This  quaint  person  in  the  green  linen  frock 
and  big  white  apron  always  looked  so  restfully 
neat  and  clean,  so  capable  and  strong  with  that 
inward  shining  strength  that  burns  with  a  steady 
light.  Jan  put  her  arms  round  Meg  and  leaned 
her  head  against  the  admirable  apron's  cool, 
smooth  bib. 

"You're  here,  anyway,"  she  said.  "You 
don't  know  how  I  thank  God  for  that." 

Meg  held  her  close.  "Listen  to  me,"  she  said. 
"You're  going  on  quite  a  wrong  tack  with  that 
brother-in-law.  You  are,  Jan — I  grieve  to  say 
it — standing  between  him  and  his  children — you 
don't  allow  him  to  see  his  children,  especially 
his  adored  daughter,  nearly  enough.  Now  that 
he  is  well  enough  to  take  the  ah*  with  Mr. 
Withells  I  propose  that  we  allow  him  to  study 
his  children — and  how  can  he  study  them  if  they 
are  never  left  with  him?  Let  him  realise  what 
it  would  be  if  he  had  them  with  him  constantly, 
and  no  interfering  aunt  to  keep  them  in  order — 
do  you  understand,  Jan?  Have  you  tumbled 

293 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

to  it?  You  are  losing  a  perfectly  magnificent 
opportunity." 

Jan  pushed  Meg  a  little  away  from  her  and 
looked  up:  "I  believe  there's  a  good  deal  in 
what  you  say." 

"There's  everything  in  what  I  say.  As  long 
as  the  man  was  ill  one  couldn't,  of  course,  but 
now  we  can  and  will — eh,  Jan?" 

"Not  Tony,"  Jan  said  nervously.  "Hugo 
doesn't  care  much  for  Tony,  and  I'm  always 
afraid  what  he  may  say  or  do  to  the  child." 

"If  you  let  him  have  them  both  occasionally 
he  may  discover  that  Tony  has  his  points." 

"They're  both  perfect  darlings,"  Jan  said  re- 
sentfully. Meg  laughed  and  danced  a  two-step 
to  the  door. 

"They're  darlings  that  need  a  good  deal  of 
diplomatic  managing,  and  if  they  don't  get  it 
they'll  raise  Cain.  I'm  going  to  take  them  down 
to  the  post-office  directly  with  my  Indian  letters. 
Why  not  come  with  us  for  the  walk?" 

Hugo  quite  enjoyed  his  run  with  Mr.  Withells 
and  Mr.  Withells  enjoyed  being  consulted  about 
Hugo's  plans.  He  felt  real  sympathy  for  a 
young  man  whose  health,  ruined  by  one  bad 
station  after  another,  had  forced  him  to  give  up 
his  career  in  India.  He  suggested  various  ame- 
liorating treatments  to  Hugo,  who  received  his 
advice  with  respectful  gratitude,  and  they  ar- 
ranged to  drive  again  together  on  Saturday, 
which  was  next  day  but  one. 

Hugo  sought  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room  for 
294 


Tactics 

a  quiet  hour  before  dinner  and  lit  a  cigar.  He 
had  hardly  realised  his  pleasantly  tired  and 
rather  somnolent  condition  when  his  daughter 
entered  carrying  a  large  Teddy-bear,  two  dolls, 
a  toy  trumpet  and  a  box  containing  a  wooden 
tea-set.  She  dropped  several  of  these  articles 
just  inside  the  door.  "Come  and  help  me  pick 
up  my  sings,"  she  commanded.  "I've  come  to 
play  wis  loo,  Daddie." 

Hugo  did  not  move.  He  was  fond  of  little 
Fay;  he  admired  her  good  looks  and  her  splendid 
health,  but  he  didn't  in  the  least  desire  her  so- 
ciety just  then. 

"Poor  Daddie's  tired,"  he  said  in  his  "saddest" 
tone.  "I  think  you'd  better  go  and  play  hi  the 
nursery  with  Tony." 

"No,"  said  little  Fay,  "Tony's  not  zere;  loo 
mus'  play  wis  me.  Or" — she  added  as  a  happy 
alternative — "loo  can  tell  me  sumfin  instastin." 

"Surely,"  said  Hugo,  "it's  your  bed-tune?" 

"No,"  little  Fay  answered,  and  the  letters 
were  never  formed  that  could  express  the  finality 
of  that  "no,"  "Med  will  fesh  me  when  it's  time. 
I've  come  to  play  wis  loo.  Det  up,  Daddie; 
loo  can't  play  p'oply  lying  zere." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can,"  Hugo  protested  eagerly. 
"You  bring  all  your  nice  toys  one  by  one  and 
show  them  to  me." 

u'At,"  she  remarked  with  great  scorn,  "would 
be  a  velly  stupid  game.  Det  up !" 

"Why  can't  Meg  play  with  you?"  Hugo  asked 
irritably.  "What's  she  doing?" 

Little  Fay  stared  at  her  father.  She  was  un- 
295 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

accustomed  to  be  addressed  in  that  tone,  and 
she  resented  it.  Earley  and  Mr.  Burgess  were 
her  humble  slaves.  Captain  Middleton  did  as 
he  was  told  and  became  an  elephant,  a  camel, 
or  a  polar  bear  on  the  shortest  notice,  moreover 
he  threw  himself  into  the  part  with  real  good- 
will and  enjoyment.  The  lazy  man  lying  there 
on  the  sofa,  who  showed  no  flattering  pleasure 
in  her  society,  must  be  roused  to  a  sense  of  his 
shortcomings.  She  seized  the  Teddy-bear,  swung 
it  round  her  head  and  brought  it  down  with  a 
resounding  thump  on  Hugo's  chest.  "Det  up," 
she  said  more  loudly.  "Loo  don't  seem  to  know 
any  stolies,  so  you  musj  play  wis  me." 

Hugo  swung  his  legs  off  the  sofa  and  sat  up 
to  recover  his  breath,  which  had  been  knocked 
out  of  him  by  the  Teddy-bear. 

"You're  a  very  rude  little  girl,"  he  said  crossly. 
"You'll  have  to  be  punished  if  you  do  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"What  sort  of  sing?" 

"What  you  did  just  now;  it's  very  naughty 
indeed." 

"Whatnelse?" 

Little  Fay  stood  with  her  head  on  one  side 
like  an  inquisitive  sparrow.  One  of  the  things 
she  had  not  dropped  was  the  tin  trumpet.  She 
raised  it  to  her  lips  now,  and  blew  a  blast  that 
went  through  Hugo's  head  like  a  knife. 

He  snatched  it  from  her.  "You're  not  to  do 
that,"  he  said.  "I  can't  stand  it.  Go  and  pick 
up  those  other  things  and  show  them  to  me." 

"Loo  can  see  zem  from  here." 
296 


Tactics 

"Not  what's  in  the  box,"  he  suggested  diplo- 
matically. 

"I'm  tah'ed  too,"  she  said,  suddenly  sitting 
down  on  the  floor.  "You  fesh  'em." 

"Will  you  play  with  them  if  I  do?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  if  loo're  closs,  and 
lude  and  naughty  and  .  .  .  stupid." 

Hugo  groaned  and  stalked  over  to  collect  the 
two  dolls  and  the  tea-things.  He  brought  them 
back  and  put  them  down  on  one  end  of  the  sofa 
while  he  sat  down  at  the  other. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "show  me  how  you  play  with 
them." 

His  cigar  had  gone  out  and  he  struck  a  match 
to  light  it  again.  Little  Fay  scrambled  to  her 
feet  and  blew  it  out  before  he  had  touched  his 
cigar  with  it. 

"Adain,"  she  said  joyously.  "Make  anozer 
light." 

He  struck  another  match,  but  sheltered  it 
with  his  hand  till  he'd  got  his  cigar  going,  his 
daughter  blowing  -vigorously  all  the  tune. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "you  can  be  a  nengine  and 
I'll  be  the  tlain." 

Round  that  drawing-room  the  unfortunate 
Hugo  ran,  encouraged  in  his  efforts  by  blasts 
upon  the  trumpet.  The  chairs  were  arranged  as 
carriages,  the  dolls  as  passengers,  and  the  box  of 
tea-things  was  luggage.  None  of  these  trans- 
formations were  suggested  by  Hugo,  but  little 
Fay  had  played  the  game  so  often  under  Meg's 
brilliant  supervision  that  she  knew  all  the  prop- 
erties by  heart. 

297 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

At  the  end  of  fifteen  minutes  Hugo  was  thor- 
oughly exhausted  and  audibly  thanked  God 
when  Meg  appeared  to  fetch  her  charge.  But 
he  hadn't  finished  even  then,  for  little  Fay, 
aided  and  abetted  by  Meg,  insisted  that  every 
single  thing  should  be  tidily  put  back  exactly 
where  it  was  before. 

At  the  door,  just  as  they  were  on  the  point  of 
departure,  Meg  paused.  "You  must  enjoy 
having  her  all  to  yourself  for  a  little  while,"  she 
said  in  honeyed,  sympathetic  tones  such  as 
Hugo,  certainly,  had  never  heard  from  her  be- 
fore. "I  fear  we've  been  rather  selfish  about 
it,  but  for  the  future  we  must  not  forget  that 
you  have  the  first  right  to  her.  .  .  .  Did  you 
kiss  your  dear  Daddie,  my  darling?" 

Through  the  shut  door  Hugo  heard  his 
daughter's  voice  proclaiming  in  lofty,  pitying 
tones,  "Pooah  Daddie  velly  stupid  man,  he  was 
a  velly  bad  nengine,  he  did  it  all  long." 

"Damn!"  said  Hugo  Tancred. 

During  dinner  that  night  Jan  talked  con- 
tinually about  the  children.  She  consulted  Hugo 
as  to  things  in  which  he  took  not  the  smallest 
interest,  such  as  what  primers  he  considered 
the  best  for  earliest  instruction  in  reading,  and 
whether  he  thought  the  Montessori  method  ad- 
vantageous or  not. 

As  they  sat  over  dessert  he  volunteered  the  re- 
mark that  little  Fay  was  rather  an  exhausting  child. 

"All  children  are,"  Jan  answered,  "and  I've 
298 


Tactics 

just  been  thinking  that  while  you  are  here  to 
help  me,  it  would  be  such  a  good  chance  to  give 
Meg  a  little  holiday.  She  has  not  had  a  day  off 
since  I  came  back  from  India,  and  it  would  be 
so  nice  for  her  to  go  to  Cheltenham  for  a  few 
days  to  see  Major  Morton." 

"But  surely,"  Hugo  said  uneasily,  "that's 
what  she's  here  for,  to  look  after  the  children. 
She's  very  highly  paid;  you  could  get  a  good 
nurse  for  half  what  you  pay  her." 

"I  doubt  it,  and  you  must  remember  that, 
because  she  loved  Fay,  she  is  accepting  less 
than  half  of  what  she  could  earn  elsewhere  to 
help  me  with  Fay's  children." 

"Of  course,  if  you  import  sentiment  into  the 
matter  you  must  pay  for  it." 

"But  I  fear  that's  just  what  I  don't  do." 

"My  dear  Jan,  you  must  forgive  me  if  I  ven- 
ture to  think  that  both  you  and  your  father, 
and  even  Fay,  were  quite  absurd  about  Meg 
Morton.  She's  a  nice  enough  little  girl,  but 
nothing  so  very  wonderful,  and  as  for  her  need- 
ing a  holiday  after  a  couple  of  months  of  the 
very  soft  job  she  has  with  you  .  .  .  that's  sheer 
nonsense." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute.  Hugo  took 
another  chocolate  and  said,  "You  know  I  don't 
believe  in  having  children  all  over  the  place. 
The  nursery  is  the  proper  place  for  them  when 
they're  little,  and  school  is  the  proper  place — 
most  certainly  the  proper  place,  anyway,  for  a 
boy — as  soon  as  ever  any  school  can  be  found  to 
take  him." 

299 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"I  quite  agree  with  you  as  to  the  benefit  of  a 
good  school,"  Jan  said  sweetly.  "I  am  painfully 
conscious  myself  of  how  much  I  lost  in  never 
having  had  any  regular  education.  Have  you 
thought  yet  what  preparatory  school  you'd  pre- 
fer for  Tony?" 

"Hardly  yet.  I've  not  been  home  long  enough, 
and,  as  you  know,  at  present,  I've  no  money  at 
all  .  .  ." 

"I  shall  be  most  pleased  to  help  with  Tony's 
education,  but  in  that  case  I  should  expect  to 
have  some  voice  in  the  school  selected." 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  Hugo  agreed.  "But 
what  I  really  want  to  know  is  what  you  propose 
to  do  to  help  me  to  attain  a  position  in  which  I 
can  educate  my  children  as  we  both  should 
wish." 

"I  don't  quite  see  where  I  come  in." 

"My  dear  Jan,  that's  absurd.  You  have 
money — and  a  few  hundreds  now  will  start  me 
again.  ..." 

"Start  you  again  in  what  direction?" 

"That's  what  we've  got  to  thresh  out.  I've 
several  propositions  to  lay  before  you." 

"All  propositions  will  have  to  be  submitted 
to  Mr.  Davidson." 

"That's  nonsense.  You  must  remember  that 
I  could  contest  Fay's  will  if  I  liked — it  was  grossly 
unfair  to  leave  that  two  thousand  pounds  away 
from  me." 

"She  left  it  to  her  children,  Hugo,  and  you 
must  remember  you  spent  eight  thousand  pounds 
of  her  money." 

300 


Tactics 

"/  didn't  spend  it.  Do  you  think  I  benefited? 
The  investments  were  unfortunate,  I  grant  you, 
but  that's  not  to  say  I  had  it." 

"  Anyway  that  money  is  gone." 

"And  the  sooner  I  set  about  making  some 
more  to  replace  it  the  better,  but  I  must  have 
help." 

"It  takes  every  penny  of  my  income  to  run 
things  here." 

"Well,  you  know,  Jan,  to  be  quite  candid,  I 
think  it's  rather  ridiculous  of  you  to  live  here. 
You  could  let  this  place  easily  and  for  a  good 
rent.  In  a  smaller  house  you'd  be  equally  com- 
fortable and  in  easier  circumstances.  I'm  not 
at  all  sure  I  approve  of  my  children  being  brought 
up  with  the  false  ideas  they  will  inevitably  ac- 
quire if  they  continue  to  live  in  a  big  place  like 
this." 

"You  see,  Hugo,  it  happens  to  be  my  house, 
and  I'm  fond  of  it." 

"No  doubt,  but  if  you  make  a  fetish  of  the 
house,  if  the  house  stands  in  the  way  of  your 
helping  your  own  flesh  and  blood  ..." 

"I  don't  think  I've  ever  refused  to  help  my 
own  relations." 

"Which  means,  I  suppose,  that  your  sister's 
husband  is  nothing  to  you." 

Jan  rose.  "You  are  rather  unjust,  I  think," 
she  said  quietly.  "I  must  put  the  children  first." 

"And  suppose  you  marry " 

"I  certainly  wouldn't  marry  any  man  who 
would  object  to  my  doing  all  I  could  for  my 
sister's  children." 

301 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"You  think  so  now,  but  wait  till  a  man  comes 
along.  You're  just  getting  to  the  age,  Jan,  when 
a  woman  is  most  apt  to  make  a  fool  of  herself 
over  a  man.  And,  remember  this,  I'd  much 
rather  my  children  were  brought  up  simply  with 
my  people  in  Guernsey  than  that  they  should 
grow  up  with  all  sorts  of  false  ideas  with  nothing 
to  back  them." 

Jan  clenched  her  teeth,  and  though  outwardly 
she  was  silent,  her  soul  was  repeating,  "I  will 
not  fear/'  over  and  over  again. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  Hugo,"  she  said 
quietly.  "You  must  arrange  as  you  think  best; 
only  please  remember  that  you  can  hardly  ex- 
pect me  to  contribute  to  the  keeping  of  the  chil- 
dren if  I  am  allowed  no  voice  in  their  upbring- 
ing. Have  you  consulted  your  parents  as  to 
their  living  with  them  in  Guernsey?  Shall  we 
go  out?  It's  such  a  beautiful  evening." 

Hugo  followed  her  into  the  hall  and  out  into 
the  garden.  Involuntarily  he  looked  after  her 
with  considerable  admiration.  She  held  herself 
well,  that  quiet  woman.  She  waited  for  him  in 
the  drive,  and  as  she  did  so  Tony's  words  came 
back  to  her:  "I  used  to  feel  frightened  inside, 
but  I  wouldn't  let  him  know  it,  and  then — it 
was  funny — but  quite  sunnly  I  wasn't  frightened 
any  more.  You  try  it." 

Jan  had  tried  it,  and,  again  to  quote  Tony, 
"it  just  happened." 


302 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  WAY  OF  A  MAN  WITH  A  MAID 


began  to  feel  annoyed.  More  and 
more  clearly  did  he  realise  that  his  chief 
object  in  coming  home  was  to  see  Jan  again; 
and  here  was  he,  still  in  London  in  the  third  week 
of  June,  and  never  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  her. 

Her  last  letter,  too,  had  postponed  his  visit 
indefinitely,  and  he  almost  thought  she  was  not 
treating  him  quite  fairly.  It  was,  of  course,  a 
confounded  bore  that  Hugo  Tancred  should  have 
turned  up  just  now,  but  Peter  saw  no  reason  for 
staying  away  for  ever  on  that  account.  He 
knew  Wren's  End  was  a  good-sized  house,  and 
though  he  appreciated  Jan's  understanding  of 
the  fact  that  he  wouldn't  exactly  choose  to  be 
a  fellow-guest  with  such  a  thoroughly  bad  hat 
as  Hugo  Tancred,  still  he  considered  it  was  lay- 
ing too  much  stress  upon  the  finer  shades  of 
feeling  to  keep  him  away  so  long. 

His  aunt  was  delighted  to  have  him;  London 
was  very  pleasant;  he  had  dined  out  quite  a 
number  of  times,  attended  some  big  parties,  seen 
all  the  best  plays,  and  bought  or  ordered  all 
the  new  clothes  he  needed,  and  a  good  deal  that 
he  didn't  need  at  all.  He  had  also  bought  a 
motor  to  take  out  with  him.  It  was  more  than 
time  to  get  within  range  of  the  main  objective 
of  his  leave. 

303 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Suggestions  that  Jan  must  have  shopping  to  do 
and  might  as  well  come  up  for  a  day  or  two  to 
do  it  only  elicited  the  reply  that  she  had  no  money 
for  shopping  and  that  it  was  most  unlikely  that 
she  would  be  hi  London  again  for  ages. 

She  hadn't  answered  his  last  letter,  either, 
which  was  another  grievance. 

Then  came  a  letter  with  the  Amber  Guiting  post- 
mark, and  in  a  handwriting  he  did  not  know — a 
funny  little,  clear,  square  handwriting  with  char- 
acter hi  every  stroke. 

He  opened  it  and  read: 

"DEAR  MR.  LEDGARD, 

"It  is  just  possible  you  may  have  heard  of  me 
from  Mrs.  Tancred  or  Miss  Ross,  but  in  case  you 
haven't  I  will  explain  that  I  am  nurse  to  the  little 
Tancreds  and  that  Miss  Ross  is  my  dearest  friend. 
I  think  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  if  you  came 
down  to  see  her,  for  her  brother-in-law  is  here, 
and  I  am  never  quite  sure  what  he  might  per- 
suade her  to  do  if  he  put  the  screw  on  about  the 
children.  There  is  a  comfortable  inn  called  'The 
Green  Hart/  and  there's  another  called  'The  Full 
Basket,'  but  I  fear  you'd  not  get  a  room  there  as 
it's  very  small  and  always  chock-full  at  this  time 
of  year  with  fishing  people. 

"You  see,  if  you  came  down  to  'The  Green 
Hart,'  Jan  couldn't  say  anything,  for  you've  a 
perfect  right  to  stay  there  if  you  choose,  and  I 
know  it  would  help  her  and  strengthen  her  hands 
to  talk  things  over  with  you.  She  has  spoken 
much  of  your  kindness  to  them  all  in  India. 

304 


"The  Way  of  a  Man  with  a  Maid" 

"Do   you   fish,   I   wonder?    I'm   sure   Squire 
Walcote  would  be  amiable  to  any  friend  of  Jan's. 
"Believe  me,  yours  truly, 

"MARGARET  MORTON." 

Peter  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket  and  left  the 
rest  of  his  correspondence  till  after  breakfast, 
and  his  aunt  decided  that  he  really  was  a  most 
amusing  and  agreeable  companion,  and  that  she 
must  have  been  mistaken  last  night  hi  thinking 
he  seemed  rather  depressed  and  worried. 

After  breakfast  he  went  out  to  send  a  reply- 
paid  telegram,  and  then  to  the  garage,  where  he 
kept  his  car.  Among  other  places  he  drove  to 
"Hardy  Brothers"  in  Pall  Mall,  where  he  stayed 
over  an  hour. 

By  the  time  he  got  back  to  Artillery  Mansions 
it  was  lunch  tune.  More  letters  awaited  him,  also 
a  telegram. 

During  lunch  he  mentioned  casually  that  he 
was  going  down  into  the  country  for  the  week- 
end to  fish.  He  was  going  to  motor  down. 

"Yes,"  in  answer  to  his  aunt's  inquiry,  "I  do 
know  people  down  there,  but  I'm  not  going  to 
stay  with  them.  I'm  going  to  the  inn — one's 
freer,  you  know,  and  if  the  sport's  good  I  may 
stay  on  a  few  days." 

Mr.  Withells  came  again  for  Hugo  on  Saturday 
morning  and  proposed  a  run  right  over  to  Chel- 
tenham for  a  rose  show.  Hugo  declined  the  rose 
show,  but  gratefully  accepted  the  drive.  He 
would  potter  about  the  town  while  Mr.  Withells 

305 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

inspected  the  flowers.  The  Grange  head-gardener 
had  several  exhibits,  and  was  to  be  taken  on  the 
front  seat. 

They  started  soon  after  breakfast  and  would 
be  gone  the  whole  day,  for  it  was  an  hour  and 
three-quarters  run  by  road  and  two  by  train. 

"I  wish  he  had  offered  to  take  you,"  Jan  said 
to  Meg  when  the  big  motor  had  vanished  out  of 
the  drive.  "It  would  have  been  so  nice  for  you 
to  see  Major  Morton." 

"And  sit  bodkin  between  Hugo  and  Mr.  With- 
ells  or  on  one  of  those  horrid  little  folding-seats 
— no,  thank  you !  When  I  go  to  see  my  poor 
little  papa  I  shall  go  by  train  by  myself.  I'll 
choose  a  day  when  then:  dear  father  can  help  you 
with  the  children." 

After  lunch  Meg  began  to  find  fault  with  Jan's 
appearance.  "I  simply  won't  see  you  in  that 
old  grey  skirt  a  minute  longer — go  and  put  on  a 
white  frock — a  nice  white  frock.  You've  got 
plenty." 

"Who  is  always  grumbling  about  the  washing? 
Besides,  I  want  to  garden." 

"You  can't  garden  this  afternoon.  On  such  a 
lovely  day  it's  your  duty  to  dress  in  accordance 
with  it.  I'm  going  to  clean  up  my  children,  and 
then  we'll  all  go  down  to  the  post-office  to  buy 
stamps  and  show  ourselves.  You  ought  to  call 
on  Lady  Mary — you  know  you  ought.  Go  and 
change,  and  then  come  and  see  if  I  approve  of 
you.  You  might  leave  a  card  at  the  vicarage, 
too.  I  know  they're  going  to  the  rose  show,  so 
you'd  be  quite  safe." 

306 


"The  Way  of  a  Man  with  a  Maid" 

" You're  a  nuisance,  Meg,"  Jan  complained. 
"Let  you  and  little  Fay  go  swanking  down  the 
village  if  you  like,  but  why  can't  you  leave 
Tony  and  me  to  potter  comfortably  in  our  old 
clothes?" 

"I'm  tired  of  your  old  clothes;  I  want  you  to 
look  decent  for  once.  You  haven't  done  any- 
thing I  asked  you  for  ages.  You  might  as  well 
do  this." 

Jan  sighed.  "It  seems  rather  absurd  when  you 
yourself  say  every  soul  we  know  will  be  at  the 
flower  show." 

"I  never  said  anything  of  the  kind.  I  said 
Mrs.  Fream  was  going  to  the  flower  show.  Hurry 
up,  Jan." 

"Well,  will  I  do ?  Will  I  satisfy  the  hedges  and 
ditches,  do  you  think?"  Jan  asked  later,  as  she 
appeared  in  the  hall  clad  in  the  white  raiment 
Meg  had  commanded. 

Meg  turned  her  round.  "Very  nice  indeed," 
she  said.  "I'm  glad  you  put  on  the  expensive 
one.  It's  funny  why  the  very  plain  things  cost 
such  a  lot.  I  like  the  black  hat  with  your  white 
hair.  Yes,  I  consent  to  take  you  out;  I  don't 
mind  owning  you  for  my  missus.  Children,  come 
and  admire  Auntie  Jan." 

Jan  dutifully  delivered  a  card  at  the  vicarage, 
and  the  nursery  party  left  her  to  walk  up  the 
Manor  drive  alone.  Lady  Mary  was  in,  and 
pleased  to  see  her,  but  she  only  stayed  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  because  Meg  had  made  her  promise 
to  meet  them  again  in  the  village.  They  were 

307 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

to  have  tea  in  the  garden  with  the  children  and 
make  it  a  little  festival. 

What  a  funny  little  thing  Meg  was,  she  thought 
as  she  strolled  down  the  drive  under  the  splendid 
beeches.  So  determined  to  have  her  own  way  in 
small  things,  such  an  incarnation  of  self-sacrifice 
in  big  ones. 

A  man  was  standing  just  outside  the  great 
gates  in  a  patch  of  black  shade  thrown  by  a  holly- 
tree  in  the  lodge  garden.  Jan  was  long-sighted, 
and  something  in  the  figure  and  its  pose  caused 
her  to  stop  suddenly.  He  wore  the  usual  grey 
summer  suit  and  a  straw  hat.  Yet  he  reminded 
her  of  somebody,  but  him  she  had  always  seen  in 
a  topee,  out  of  doors. 

Of  course  it  was  only  a  resemblance — but  what 
was  he  waiting  there  for? 

He  moved  out  from  the  patch  of  shade  and 
looked  up  the  drive  through  the  open  gates.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  waved  it,  and  came  quickly 
towards  her. 

"I  couldn't  wait  any  longer,"  he  said.  "I 
won't  be  the  least  bit  of  a  nuisance.  I've  come 
to  fish,  and  I'm  staying  at  'The  Green  Hart'.  .  .  . 
And  how  are  you?" 

She  could  never  make  it  out,  when  she  thought 
it  over  afterwards,  but  Jan  found  herself  stand- 
ing with  both  her  hands  in  his  and  her  beautiful 
black  parasol  tumbled  unheeded  in  the  dust. 

"I  happened  to  meet  the  children  and  Miss 
Morton,  and  they  asked  me  to  tell  you  they've 
gone  home.  They  also  invited  me  to  tea." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Jan. 

308 


"The  Way  of  a  Man  with  a  Maid" 

"I  should  hardly  have  known  Tony,"  he  con- 
tinued; "he  looks  capital.  And  as  for  little  Fay 
— she's  a  picture,  but  she  always  was." 

"Did  they  know  you?" 

"Did  they  know  me !" 

"Were  they  awfully  pleased?" 

"They  were  ever  so  jolly;  even  Tony  shouted." 

At  the  lodge  they  met  the  Squire.  Jan  intro- 
duced Peter  and  explained  that  he  had  just  come 
down  for  a  few  days'  fishing  and  was  staying  at 
"The  Green  Hart."  The  Squire  proffered  advice 
as  to  the  best  flies  and  a  warning  that  he  must 
not  hope  for  much  sport.  The  Amber  was  a 
difficult  river,  very;  and  variable;  and  it  had 
been  a  particularly  dry  June. 

Peter  bore  up  under  this  depressing  intelli- 
gence and  he  and  Jan  walked  on  through  warm, 
scented  lanes  to  Wren's  End;  and  Peter  looked 
at  Jan  a  good  deal. 

Those  who  happened  to  be  in  London  during 
the  season  of  1914  will  remember  that  it  was  a 
period  of  powder  and  paint  and  frankest  touch- 
ing-up  of  complexions.  The  young  and  pretty 
were  blackened  and  whitened  and  reddened  quite 
as  crudely  as  the  old  and  ugly.  There  was  no 
attempt  at  concealment.  The  faces  of  many 
Mayfair  ladies  filled  Peter  with  disrespectful  as- 
tonishment. He  had  not  been  home  for  four 
years,  and  then  nice  girls  didn't  do  that  sort  of 
thing — much. 

Now  one  of  Jan's  best  points  was  her  complex- 
ion; it  was  so  fair  and  fresh.  The  touch  of  sun- 
burn, too,  was  becoming,  for  she  didn't  freckle. 

309 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Peter  found  himself  positively  thankful  to  be- 
hold a  really  clean  face;  a  face,  too,  that  just 
then  positively  beamed  with  warm  welcome  and 
frank  pleasure. 

A  clean  face;  a  cool,  clean  frock;  kind,  candid 
eyes  and  a  gentle,  sincere  voice — yes,  they  were 
all  there  just  as  he  remembered  them,  just  as  he 
had  so  often  dreamt  of  them.  Moreover,  he  de- 
cided there  and  then  that  the  Georgian  ladies 
knew  what  they  were  about  when  they  powdered 
their  hah* — white  hair,  he  thought,  was  extraor- 
dinarily becoming  to  a  woman. 

"You  are  looking  better  than  when  I  was  in 
Bombay.  I  think  your  leave  must  have  done 
you  good  already,"  said  the  kind,  friendly  voice. 

"I  need  a  spell  of  country  air,  really  to  set  me 
up,"  said  Peter. 

They  had  an  hilarious  tea  with  the  children  on 
the  Wren's  lawn,  and  the  tamest  of  the  robins 
hopped  about  on  the  step  just  to  show  that  he 
didn't  care  a  fig  for  any  of  them. 

Meg  was  just  going  to  take  the  children  to  bed 
when  Mr.  Withells  brought  Hugo  back.  It  was 
an  awkward  moment.  Peter  knew  far  too  much 
about  Hugo  to  simulate  the  smallest  cordiality; 
and  Hugo  was  too  well  aware  of  some  of  the  things 
Peter  knew  to  feel  at  all  comfortable  in  his  pres- 
ence. But  he  had  no  intention  of  giving  way  an 
inch.  He  took  the  chair  Meg  had  just  vacated 
and  sat  down.  Mr.  Withells,  too,  sat  down  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  no  sooner  had  he  done  so  than 
William  dashed  out  from  amongst  them,  and,  re- 
turning, was  accompanied  by  Captain  Middleton. 

310 


"The  Way  of  a  Man  with  a  Maid" 

"No  tea,  thank  you.  Just  got  down  from  town, 
came  with  a  message  from  my  uncle — would  Miss 
Ross's  friend  care  for  a  rod  on  the  Manor  water 
on  Monday?  A  brother  officer  who  had  been 
coming  had  failed  at  the  last  minute — there  was 
room  for  four  rods,  but  there  wasn't  a  chance  of 
much  sport." 

Miles  was  introduced  to  Peter  and  sat  down 
by  him.  The  children  rushed  at  Miles  and,  ably 
impeded  by  William,  swarmed  over  him  in  riotous 
welcome,  wholly  regardless  of  their  nurse's  voice 
which  summoned  them  to  bed. 

Meg  stood  waiting. 

"Miss  Morton's  father  lives  in  Cheltenham," 
Jan  said  to  Mr.  Withells,  who  seemed  rather  left 
out.  "She's  going  to  see  him  on  Tuesday — to 
spend  the  day." 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Withells  in  his  clear  stac- 
cato, "she  must  take  the  9.15 — it's  much  the 
best  train  in  the  day.  And  the  4.55  back.  No 
other  trains  are  at  all  suitable.  I  hope  you  will 
be  guided  by  me  in  this  matter,  Miss  Morton. 
I've  made  the  journey  many  times." 

So  had  Meg;  but  Mr.  Withells  always  irritated 
her  to  such  an  extent  that  had  it  been  possible, 
she  would  have  declared  her  intention  to  go  and 
return  by  quite  different  trains.  As  it  was,  she 
nodded  pleasantly  and  said  those  were  the  very 
trains  she  had  selected. 

Miles  thrust  his  head  out  from  among  the  en- 
compassing three  and  respectfully  implored  Mr. 
Withells'  advice  about  trains  to  Cricklade,  which 
lay  off  the  Cheltenham  route,  even  going  so  far 

311 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

as  to  note  the  hours  of  departure  and  arrival  care- 
fully in  a  little  book. 

Finally  Meg  came  and  disencumbered  Miles  of 
the  chilolren  and  bore  them  away. 

When  her  voice  took  on  a  certain  tone  it  was 
as  useless  to  cope  with  Meg  as  with  Auntie  Jan. 
They  knew  this,  and  like  wise  children  gave  in 
gracefully. 

Elaborate  farewells  had  to  be  said  to  every- 
body, and  with  a  final  warm  embrace  for  Miles, 
little  Fay  called  to  him  "Turn  and  see  me  in  my 
baff." 

"Captain  Middleton  will  have  gone  long  before 
you  are  ready  for  that,"  Meg  said  inhospitably, 
and  trying  to  look  very  tall  and  dignified  she 
walked  up  the  three  steps  leading  to  the  nursery. 
But  it  is  almost  impossible  to  look  imposing  with 
a  lagging  child  dragging  at  each  hand,  and  poor 
Meg  felt  that  her  exit  was  far  from  effective. 

William  settled  himself  comfortably  across  his 
master's  knees  and  in  two  minutes  was  snoring 
softly. 

Miles  manifested  so  keen  an  interest  in  Mr. 
Withells'  exhibits  (he  had  got  a  second  prize  and 
a  highly  commended)  that  the  kindly  little  man 
was  quite  attracted;  and  when  Miles  inquired 
about  trains  to  Cheltenham  he  gave  him  pre- 
cisely the  same  advice  that  he  had  given  Meg. 


The  station  at  Amber  Guiting  is  seldom 
crowded;  it's  on  a  shuttle  line,  and  except  on 
market-day  there  is  but  little  passenger  traffic. 

312 


"The  Way  of  a  Man  with  a  Maid" 

Therefore  a  small  young  lady  with  rather  con- 
spicuously red  hair,  a  neat  grey  coat  and  skirt,  a 
shady  grey  straw  hat  trimmed  with  white  clover 
and  green  leaves,  and  a  green  parasol,  was  notice- 
able upon  the  platform  out  of  all  proportion  to 
her  size. 

The  train  was  waiting.  The  lady  entered  an 
empty  third-class  carriage,  and  sitting  in  the  cor- 
ner with  her  back  to  the  engine,  shut  herself  in. 
The  train  departed  punctually,  and  she  took  out 
from  her  bag  a  note-book  which  she  studied  with 
frowning  concentration. 

Ten  minutes  further  down  the  line  the  train 
stops  again  at  Guiting  Green,  and  here  the  young 
lady  looked  out  of  the  window  to  see  whether 
anyone  was  travelling  that  she  recognised. 

There  was.  But  it  was  impossible  to  judge 
from  the  young  lady's  expression  whether  the 
recognition  gave  her  pleasure  or  not. 

She  drew  in  her  head  very  quickly,  but  not 
before  she  had  been  seen. 

"Hullo,  Miss  Morton!  Where  are  you  going? 
May  I  get  in  here?" 

"Aren't  you  travelling  first?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Sure  you  don't  mind?  How 
jolly  to  have  met  you!" 

Miles  looked  so  smiling,  so  big  and  well  turned 
out,  and  pleased  with  life,  that  Meg's  severe  ex- 
pression relaxed  somewhat. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said,  "you're  just  going  to  the 
junction.  But  why  come  to  Guiting  Green?" 

"I  came  to  Guiting  Green  because  it's  exactly 
four  miles  from  the  Manor  House.  And  I've 

313 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

walked  those  four  miles,  Miss  Morton,  walked 
'em  for  the  good  of  my  health.  Wish  it  wasn't 
so  dusty,  though — look  at  my  boots !  I'm  going 
to  Cheltenham.  Where  are  you  going?" 

"Cheltenham?"  Meg  repeated  suspiciously. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  there?" 

"I'm  going  to  see  about  a  horse — not  a  dog 
this  tune — I  hear  that  Smith's  have  got  a  horse 
that  may  suit  me;  really  up  to  my  weight  they 
say  it  is,  so  I  took  the  chance  of  going  over  while 
I'm  with  my  uncle — it's  a  lot  nearer  than  town, 
you  know.  But  where  are  you  going?" 

"I,"  said  Meg,  "am  going  to  Cheltenham— 

"To  Cheltenham!"  Miles  exclaimed  in  rather 
overdone  astonishment.  "What  an  extraordinary 
coincidence !  And  what  are  you  going  to  buy  in 
Cheltenham?" 

"I  am  going  to  see  my  father.  I  thought  I  had 
told  you  he  lives  there." 

"So  you  did,  of  course.  How  stupid  of  me  to 
forget!  Well,  it's  very  jolly  we  should  happen 
to  be  going  down  together,  isn't  it?" 

They  looked  at  one  another,  and  Miles  laughed. 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  we  ought  to  travel 
together  after  we  reach  the  junction,  and  I  don't 
believe  you've  got  a  third-class  ticket."  Meg 
looked  very  prim. 

Miles  produced  his  ticket — it  was  third-class. 

"There!"  he  said  triumphantly. 

"You  would  be  much  more  comfortable  in  a 
smoker." 

"So  would  you.  We'll  take  a  smoker;  I've 
got  the  sort  of  cigarette  you  like." 

314 


"The  Way  of  a  Man  with  a  Maid" 

At  the  junction  they  got  a  smoker,  and  Miles 
saw  to  it  that  they  had  it  to  themselves;  he  also 
persuaded  the  guard  to  give  Meg  a  square  wooden 
box  to  put  her  feet  on,  because  he  thought  the 
seats  were  too  high  for  her. 

It  seemed  a  very  short  journey. 

Major  Morton  was  awaiting  Meg  when  *hey 
arrived;  a  little  gentleman  irnmaculately  neat  (it 
was  quite  clear  whence  Meg  got  her  love  of  de- 
tail and  finish) — who  looked  both  washed-out  and 
dried-up.  He  embraced  her  with  considerable 
solemnity,  exclaiming,  "God  bless  you,  my  dear 
child !  You  look  better  than  I  expected." 

"Papa,  dear,  here  is  Captain  Middleton,  a 
friend  from  Amber  Guiting.  We  happened  to 
travel  together." 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  sir,"  said  the  little  Major 
graciously;  and  somehow  Miles  contrived  in  two 
minutes  so  to  ingratiate  himself  with  Meg's  "poor 
little  papa"  that  they  all  walked  out  of  the  sta- 
tion together  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Then  came  the  question  of  plans. 

Meg  had  shopping  to  do,  declared  she  had  a 
list  as  long  as  her  arm,  but  was  entirely  at  her 
father's  disposal  as  to  whether  she  should  do  it 
before  or  after  lunch. 

Miles  boldly  suggested  she  should  do  it  now,  at 
once,  while  it  was  still  fairly  cool,  and  then  she 
could  have  all  her  parcels  sent  to  the  station  to 
meet  her.  He  seemed  quite  eager  to  get  rid  of 
Meg.  The  little  Major  agreed  that  this  would 
be  the  best  course.  He  would  stroll  round  to  his 
club  while  Meg  was  shopping,  and  meet  her 

315 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

when  she  thought  she  would  have  finished.  They 
walked  to  the  promenade  and  dropped  her  at 
Cavendish  House.  Miles,  explaining  that  he  had 
to  go  to  Smith's  to  look  at  a  horse,  asked  for  direc- 
tions from  the  Major.  Their  way  was  the  same, 
and  without  so  much  as  bidding  her  farewell, 
Miles  strolled  up  one  of  the  prettiest  promenades 
in  England  in  company  with  her  father.  Meg 
felt  rather  dazed. 

She  prided  herself  on  having  reduced  shopping 
to  a  fine  art,  but  to-day,  somehow,  she  didn't  get 
through  as  quickly  as  usual,  and  there  was  a 
number  of  items  on  her  list  still  unticked  when 
it  was  time  to  meet  her  father  just  outside  his 
club  at  the  top  of  the  promenade. 

Major  Morton  was  the  essence  of  punctuality. 
Meg  flew  to  meet  him,  and  found  he  had  waited 
five  minutes.  He  was  not,  however,  upset,  as 
might  have  been  expected.  He  took  her  to  his 
rooms  in  a  quiet  terrace  behind  the  promenade 
and  comfortably  near  his  club.  The  sun-blinds 
were  down  outside  his  sitting-room  windows,  and 
the  room  seemed  cool  and  pleasant. 

Then  it  was  that  Meg  discovered  that  her 
father  was  looking  at  her  in  quite  a  new  way. 
Almost,  in  fact,  as  though  he  had  never  seen  her 
before. 

Was  it  her  short  hair?  she  wondered. 

Yet  that  was  not  very  noticeable  under  such  a 
shady  hat. 

Major  Morton  had  vigorously  opposed  the 
nursemaid  scheme.  To  the  sympathetic  ladies 
who  attended  the  same  strictly  evangelical  church 

316 


"The  Way  of  a  Man  with  a  Maid" 

of  which  he  was  a  pillar,  he  confided  that  his  only 
daughter  did  not  care  for  "a  quiet  domestic  life." 
It  was  a  grief  to  him — but,  after  all,  parents  are 
shelved  nowadays;  every  girl  wants  to  "live  her 
own  life,"  and  he  would  be  the  last  man  to  stand 
in  the  way  of  his  child's  happiness.  The  ladies 
felt  very  sorry  for  Major  Morton  and  indignant 
with  the  hard-hearted,  unfilial  Meg.  They  did 
not  realise  that  had  Meg  lived  with  her  father — 
in  rooms — and  earned  nothing,  the  Major's  deli- 
cate digestion  might  occasionally  have  suffered, 
and  Meg  would  undoubtedly  have  been  half- 
starved. 

To-day,  however,  he  was  more  hopeful  about 
Meg  than  he  had  been  for  a  long  tune.  Since 
the  Trent  episode  he  had  ceased  even  to  imagine 
her  possible  marriage.  By  her  own  headstrong 
folly  she  had  ruined  all  her  chances.  "The  weari- 
ful rich"  who  had  got  her  the  post  did  not  spare 
him  this  aspect  of  her  deplorable  conduct.  To- 
day, however,  there  was  a  rift  in  these  dark  clouds 
of  consequence. 

Captain  Middleton — he  only  knows  how — had 
persuaded  Major  Morton  to  go  with  him  to  see 
the  horse,  had  asked  his  quite  useless  advice,  and 
had  subtly  and  insidiously  conveyed  to  the  Major, 
without  one  single  incriminating  sentence,  a  very 
clear  idea  as  to  his  own  feelings  for  the  Major's 
daughter. 

Major  Morton  felt  cheered. 

He  had  no  idea  who  Miles  really  was,  but  he 
had  remarked  the  gunner  tie,  and,  asking  to  what 
part  of  the  Royal  Regiment  Miles  belonged,  de- 

317 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

cided  that  no  mere  pauper  could  be  a  Horse- 
Gunner. 

He  regarded  his  daughter  with  new  eyes. 

She  was  undoubtedly  attractive.  He  discov- 
ered certain  resemblances  to  himself  that  he  had 
never  noticed  before. 

Then  he  informed  her  that  he  had  promised 
they  would  both  lunch  with  her  agreeable  friend 
at  the  Queen's  Hotel:  "He  made  such  a  point  of 
it,"  said  Major  Morton,  "I  could  hardly  refuse; 
begged  us  to  take  pity  on  his  loneliness,  and  so 
on — and  I'm  feeling  rather  better  to-day." 

Meg  decided  that  the  tide  of  fate  was  too  strong 
for  her,  she  must  just  drift  with  it. 

It  was  a  most  pleasant  lunch,  save  for  one  in- 
cident. Lady  Penelope  Pottinger  and  her  hus- 
band, accompanied  by  Lottie  Trent  and  a  man, 
were  lunching  at  another  table. 

Lady  Penelope's  party  came  in  late.  Miles  and 
his  guests  had  already  arrived  at  coffee  when  they 
appeared. 

They  had  to  pass  Miles'  table,  and  Lady  Penel- 
ope stopped;  so  did  her  husband.  She  shook 
hands  with  Meg.  Miss  Trent  passed  by  with 
her  nose  in  the  air. 

Miles  presented  his  relations  to  the  Major  and 
they  passed  on. 

The  Major  was  quite  pleased  and  rather  flut- 
tered. He  had  no  idea  that  the  tall  young 
woman  with  Lady  Penelope  had  deliberately  cut 
his  host.  But  Meg  knew  just  why  she  had  done 
it. 

After  lunch  Miles  very  properly  effaced  him- 
318 


"The  Way  of  a  Man  with  a  Maid" 

self,  but  made  a  point  of  asking  the  Major  if  he 
might  act  as  Miss  Morton's  escort  on  the  journey 
back  to  Amber  Guiting. 

The  Major  graciously  accompanied  Meg  while 
she  did  the  rest  of  her  shopping,  and  in  the  prom- 
enade they  met  the  Pottinger  party  again. 

The  4.55  was  crowded.  Miles  collected  Meg's 
parcels  and  suggested  to  the  Major  that  it  would 
be  less  tiring  for  his  daughter  if  they  returned 
first-class.  Should  he  change  the  tickets? 

The  Major  thought  it  a  sensible  proposition, 
especially  with  all  those  parcels.  Meg  would  pay 
Captain  Middleton  the  difference. 

Again  an  amiable  porter  secured  them  an  empty 
carriage.  The  parcels  spread  themselves  luxuri- 
ously upon  the  unoccupied  seats.  The  Major 
kissed  his  daughter  and  gave  her  his  benediction, 
shaking  hands  quite  warmly  with  her  "  pleasant 
young  friend." 

The  4.55  runs  right  up  to  the  junction  without 
a  stop.  Meg  took  off  her  best  hat  and  placed  it 
carefully  in  the  rack.  She  leaned  her  bewildered 
head  against  the  cushions  and  closed  her  eyes. 
She  would  drift  with  the  tide  just  a  few  minutes 
more,  and  then 

Miles  put  a  box  of  groceries  for  Lady  Mary 
under  her  feet.  She  smiled  faintly,  but  did  not 
speak. 

Presently  she  opened  her  eyes  to  find  him  re- 
garding her  with  that  expression  she  had  surprised 
once  or  twice  before,  and  never  understood. 

"Tired?"  he  asked. 

"Only  pleasantly.  I  think  I've  only  travelled 
319 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

first-class  about  five  times  in  my  life  before — and 
then  it  was  with  Mr.  Ross." 

"And  now  it's  with  me,  and  I  hope  it's  the  first 
of  many." 

"You  say  very  odd  things." 

"What  I  mean  isn't  in  the  least  odd — it's  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world." 

"What  is?" 

"To  want  to  go  on  travelling  with  you." 

"If  you're  going  to  talk  nonsense,  I  shall  go  to 
sleep  again." 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  can  allow  you  to  go  to 
sleep.  I  want  you  to  wake  up  and  face  facts." 

"Facts?" 

"A  fact." 

"Facts  are  sometimes  very  unpleasant." 

"I  hope  the  fact  I  want  you  to  face  isn't  exactly 
that — if  it  is  ...  then  I'm  ...  a  jolly  misera- 
ble chap.  Miss  Morton — Meg — you  must  see 
how  it  is  with  me — you  must  know  that  you're 
dearer  to  me  than  anything  on  earth.  I  think 
your  father  tumbled  to  it — and  I  don't  think  he 
minded  .  .  .  that  I  should  want  you  for  my  wife." 

"My  poor  little  papa  would  be  relieved  to  think 
that  anyone  could  .  .  ." 

"Could  what?" 

"Care  for  me  ...  in  that  way." 

"Nonsense !  But  I'm  exceedingly  glad  to  have 
met  your  father." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  wanted  to  meet  him." 

"Again,  why?" 

"Because  he's  your  father." 
320 


"The  Way  of  a  Man  with  a  Maid" 

"Did  you  observe  that  Miss  Lotty  Trent  cut 
you  dead  at  the  Queen's  to-day?" 

"I  did  notice  it,  and,  like  you,  I  wonder  why." 

"I  can  tell  you." 

"I  don't  think  you'd  better  bother.  Miss 
Trent's  opinion  of  me  really  doesn't  matter " 

"It  was  because  you  were  with  me." 

"But  what  a  silly  reason — if  it  is  a  reason." 

"Captain  Middleton,  will  you  answer  a  ques- 
tion quite  truthfully?" 

"I'll  try." 

"What  have  you  heard  about  me  in  connec- 
tion with  the  Trents?" 

"Not  much,  and  that  I  don't  believe." 

"But  you  must  believe  it,  some  of  it.  It  may 
not  be  so  bad — as  it  might  have  been — but  I  put 
myself  entirely  in  the  wrong.  I  deceived  Mrs. 
Trent  and  I  did  a  thing  no  girl  in  her  senses  ought 
to  have  done." 

"Look  here,  Meg,"  said  Miles,  leaning  forward. 
"I  don't  want  to  know  anything  you  don't  choose 
to  tell  me;  but  since  you  are  on  the  subject — 
what  did  happen  between  you  and  that  .  .  .  and 
Walter  Brooke?" 

Meg,  too,  leant  forward;  the  express  swayed 
and  lurched.  Their  faces  were  very  near;  then* 
eyes  met  and  held  each  other  in  a  long,  searching 
gaze  on  the  one  side  and  an  answering  look  of 
absolute  candour  on  the  other. 

"I  promised  to  go  away  with  him,  and  I  went 
away  a  few  miles,  and  something  came  over  me 
that  I  couldn't  go  any  further,  and  I  broke  my 
promise  and  ran  away.  Jan  knows  it's  true,  for 

321 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

it  was  to  them  I  went.  But  the  Trents  would 
never  believe  it,  though  Mr.  Ross  saw  Mrs.  Trent 
herself,  and  told  her  exactly  what  had  happened. 
And  I  daresay  .  .  .  they  are  quite  justified." 

"And  how  many  times  have  you  seen  him 
since?" 

"  Never  till  the  other  day,  when  he  nearly  ran 
over  William." 

"And  how  long  ago  is  it  since  all  this  hap- 
pened?" 

"Nearly  six  years." 

"Don't  you  think  it's  about  time  you  put  it 
all  out  of  your  mind?" 

"I  had  put  it  out  of  my  mind  .  .  .  till  .  .  . 
you  came." 

"It  didn't  make  any  difference  to  me." 

"I  shall  never  forget  that,"  Meg  said,  so  low 
that  the  rattle  of  the  train  wholly  drowned  her 
remark,  but  it  couldn't  conceal  her  smile. 

Miles  lost  his  head.  He  kneeled  down  plump 
on  the  floor  of  that  compartment  and  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 


"All  the  same,  I  don't  believe  I  can  marry 
you,"  she  said  later. 

"Why  on  earth  not?" 

"Because  I  don't  think  I'm  a  suitable  wife  for 
you." 

"Surely  I'm  the  best  judge  of  that." 

"No,  you're  not  a  judge  at  all.    You  think 
you're  in  love  with  me  .  .  ." 

"I'm  hanged  if  I  do — I  know." 
322 


"The  Way  of  a  Man  with  a  Maid" 

"Because  you're  sorry  for  me " 

"On  the  contrary,  I'm  sorry  for  myself.  I 
think  you're  a  hard-hearted  .  .  .  obstinate  .  .  . 
little  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Withells  would  have  been  scandalised  at 
the  conduct  of  Miles.  He  would  undoubtedly 
have  described  it  as  both  "insanitary  and  im- 
proper." 

"Oh,  please  listen!"  Meg  gasped.  "Perhaps  a 
long  time  hence  ...  if  you're  still  of  the  same 
mind  .  .  ." 

"Anyway,  may  I  tell  people?" 

"Not  a  soul.  I  won't  have  my  Jan  worried 
just  now.  I've  undertaken  those  children  .  .  . 
and  she's  having  a  bad  time  with  that  brother- 
in-law " 

"I  say,  Meg,  what  is  it  about  that  chap  Tan- 
cred?  I  can't  stick  him.  ...  Is  he  a  bad  egg, 
or  what?" 

"He  is  .  .  ." 

"Poor  Miss  Ross!  But  why  does  she  have 
him  there?" 

"Oh,  it's  a  long  story — and  here  we  are  at  the 
junction,  and  I'm  not  going  on  first  to  Amber 
Guiting — so  there!" 

Jan  in  the  pony-cart  was  waiting  outside  when 
Meg  came  from  the  little  station.  Captain  Mid- 
dleton  followed  in  her  train,  laden  with  parcels 
like  a  Father  Christmas. 

He  packed  her  and  the  parcels  in,  covered  both 
the  ladies  with  the  dust-holland,  announced  that 
he  had  bought  a  charger,  and  waited  to  get  into 

323 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

the  Manor  motor  till  they  had  driven  out  of  the 
station. 

They  neither  of  them  spoke  till  they  had  turned 
into  the  road.  Then  Jan  quoted  softly:  "When 
I  go  to  see  my  poor  little  papa,  I  shall  go  by 
train  by  myself." 


324 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  DEMONSTRATION  IN   FORCE 

HUGO  was  dissatisfied.     So    far,   beyond  a 
miserable  ten  pounds  to  buy  some  clothes, 
he  had  got  no  money  out  of  Jan;  and  he  was  get- 
ting bored. 

To  be  sure,  he  still  had  most  of  the  ten  pounds, 
for  he  had  gone  and  ordered  everything  in  the 
market-town,  where  the  name  of  Ross  was  con- 
sidered safe  as  the  Bank  of  England.  So  he 
hadn't  paid  for  anything. 

Then  there  was  that  fellow  Ledgard — what  did 
he  want  hanging  about,  pretending  to  fish?  He 
was  after  Jan  and  her  money,  that  was  his  game. 

But  however  clear  Peter  Ledgard's  nefarious 
intentions  might  be,  Hugo  confessed  his  sister-in- 
law  puzzled  him.  She  wasn't  nearly  as  much 
afraid  of  him  as  he  had  expected.  She  was  al- 
ways gentle  and  courteous,  but  under  the  soft 
exterior  he  had  occasionally  felt  a  rock  of  deter- 
mination, that  was  disconcerting. 

He  had  ceased  to  harp  upon  the  string  of  his 
desolation.  Somehow  Jan  contrived  to  show  him 
that  she  didn't  believe  in  it,  and  yet  she  never 
said  one  word  to  which  he  could  take  exception. 

It  was  awkward  that  his  own  people  were  all  of 
them  so  unsympathetic  about  the  children.  His 
father  and  mother  declared  themselves  to  be  too 

325 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

old  to  undertake  them  unless  Hugo  could  pay 
liberally  for  their  board  and  for  a  thoroughly 
capable  nurse.  Neither  of  his  sisters  would  en- 
tertain the  idea  at  all;  and  both  wrote  pointing 
out  that  until  Hugo  was  able  to  make  a  home  for 
them  himself,  he  would  be  most  foolish  to  interfere 
with  the  arrangements  of  a  devoted  aunt  who 
appeared  not  only  willing  but  anxious  to  assume 
their  entire  maintenance. 

He  had  told  his  people  that  his  health  forced 
him  to  relinquish  his  work  in  India.  His  brothers- 
in-law,  although  they  had  no  idea  of  the  real 
cause,  thought  there  was  something  fishy  about 
this,  and  were  unsympathetic. 

Peter  got  at  the  doctor,  and  the  doctor  declared 
sea-air  to  be  the  one  thing  necessary  to  insure 
Hugo's  complete  restoration  to  health.  Jan  hap- 
pened to  mention  that  her  brother-in-law's  people 
lived  in  Guernsey,  close  to  the  shore.  The  doctor 
said  he  couldn't  do  better  than  go  and  stay  with 
them,  and  that  the  journey  wouldn't  hurt  him  a 
bit. 

Still  Hugo  appeared  reluctant  to  leave  Wren's 
End. 

Peter  came  one  day  and  demanded  a  business 
talk  with  him.  It  was  a  most  unpleasant  conver- 
sation. Peter  declared  on  Jan's  behalf  that  she 
was  quite  ready  to  help  him  to  some  new  start  in 
life,  but  that  if  it  meant  a  partnership  in  any 
rubber  plantation,  fruit-farm,  or  business  of  any 
sort  whatsoever,  the  money  required  must  be 
paid  through  her  lawyer  directly  into  the  hands 
of  the  planter,  farmer,  or  merchant  concerned. 

326 


A  Demonstration  in  Force 

Hugo  declared  such  an  offer  to  be  an  insult. 
Peter  replied  that  it  was  a  great  deal  better  than 
he  deserved  or  could  expect;  and  that  he,  per- 
sonally, thought  Miss  Ross  very  silly  to  make  it; 
but  she  did  make  it,  and  attached  to  its  accep- 
tance was  a  clause  to  the  effect  that  until  he  could 
show  he  was  in  a  position  to  maintain  his  family 
in  comfort,  he  was  to  give  then*  aunt  an  under- 
taking that  he  would  not  interfere  with  her  ar- 
rangements for  the  welfare  of  the  children. 

"I  see  no  reason,"  said  Hugo,  "why  you  should 
interfere  between  my  sister-in-law  and  me,  but, 
of  course,  any  fool  could  see  what  you're  after. 
You  want  her  money,  and  when  you've  married 
her,  I  suppose  my  poor  children  are  to  be  thrown 
out  into  the  street,  and  me  too  far  off  to  see  after 
them." 

"Up  to  now,"  Peter  retorted,  "you  have  shown 
no  particular  desire  to  'see  after'  your  children. 
Why  are  you  such  a  fool,  Tancred?  Why  don't 
you  thankfully  accept  Miss  Ross's  generous  offer, 
and  try  to  make  a  fresh  start?" 

"It's  no  business  of  yours  what  I  do." 

"Certainly  not,  but  your  sister-in-law's  peace 
and  happiness  is  my  business,  because  I  have  the 
greatest  admiration,  respect  and  liking  for  her." 

"Les  beaux  yeux  de  sa  cassette,"  growled  Hugo. 

"You  are  an  ass,"  Peter  said  wearily.  "And 
you  know  very  little  of  Miss  Ross  if  you  haven't 
seen  by  this  time  ..."  Peter  stopped. 

"Well,  go  on." 

"No,"  said  Peter,  "I  won't  go  on,  for  it's  run- 
ning my  horses  on  a  rock.  Think  it  over,  that's 

327 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

all.  But  remember  the  offer  does  not  remain 
open  indefinitely." 

"Well,  and  if  I  choose  to  refuse  it  and  go  to 
law  and  take  my  children — what  then?" 

"No  court  in  England  would  give  you  their 
custody." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you  couldn't  show  means  to  support 
them,  and  we  could  produce  witnesses  to  prove 
that  you  are  not  a  fit  person  to  have  the  custody 
of  children." 

"We  should  see  about  that." 

"Well,  think  it  over.  It's  your  affair,  you 
know."  And  Peter  went  away,  leaving  Hugo  to 
curse  and  bite  his  nails  in  impotent  rage.  Peter 
really  was  far  from  conciliatory. 

Jan  needed  a  fright,  Hugo  decided;  that's  what 
she  wanted  to  bring  her  to  heel.  And  before 
very  long  he'd  see  that  she  got  it.  She  shouldn't 
shelter  herself  for  ever  behind  that  supercilious 
beast,  Ledgard.  Hugo  was  quite  ready  to  have 
been  pleasant  to  Jan  and  to  have  met  her  more 
than  half-way  if  she  was  reasonable,  but  since  she 
had  chosen  to  bring  Ledgard  into  it,  she  should 
pay.  After  all,  she  was  only  a  woman,  and  you 
can  always  frighten  a  woman  if  you  go  the  right 
way  about  it.  It  was  damned  bad  luck  that 
Ledgard  should  have  turned  up  just  now.  It 
was  Ledgard  he'd  got  to  thank  that  Fay  had 
made  that  infamously  unjust  will  by  which  she 
left  the  remnant  of  her  money  to  her  children 
and  not  to  her  husband.  Oh  yes!  he'd  a  lot  to 
thank  Ledgard  for.  Well,  he  wouldn't  like  it 

328 


A  Demonstration  in  Force 

when  Jan  got  hurt.  Ledgard  was  odd  about 
women.  He  couldn't  bear  to  see  them  worried; 
he  couldn't  bear  to  see  Fay  worried,  interfered 
then.  A  blank,  blank,  blank  interfering  chap, 
Ledgard  was.  What  Jan  needed  was  a  real  good 
scare. 

They  suggested  Guernsey.  Well,  he'd  go  to 
Guernsey,  and  he  wouldn't  go  alone.  Hugo  thor- 
oughly enjoyed  a  plot.  The  twilight  world  that 
had  been  so  difficult  and  perplexing  to  poor  Fay 
had  for  him  a  sort  of  exciting  charm.  Wren's 
End  had  become  dreadfully  dull.  For  the  first 
week  or  two,  while  he  felt  so  ill,  it  had  been  rest- 
ful. Now  its  regular  hours  and  ordered  tran- 
quillity were  getting  on  his  nerves.  All  those 
portraits  of  his  wife,  too,  worried  him.  He  could 
go  into  no  room  where  the  lovely  face,  with  youth's 
wistful  wonder  as  to  what  life  held,  did  not  con- 
front him  with  a  reminder  that  the  wife  he  had 
left  to  die  in  Bombay  did  not  look  in  the  least 
like  that. 

There  were  few  things  in  his  life  save  miscal- 
culation that  he  regretted.  But  he  did  feel  un- 
comfortable when  he  remembered  Fay — so  trust- 
ful always,  so  ready  to  help  him  in  any  difficulty. 
People  liked  her;  even  women  liked  her  in  spite 
of  her  good  looks,  and  Hugo  had  found  the  world 
a  hard,  unfriendly  place  since  her  death. 

The  whole  thing  was  getting  on  his  nerves.  It 
was  time  to  shuffle  the  cards  and  have  a  new  deal. 

He  packed  his  suit-case  which  had  been  so 
empty  when  he  arrived,  and  waited  for  a  day 
when  Peter  had  taken  Jan,  Meg  and  the  children 

329 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

for  a  motor  run  to  a  neighbouring  town.  He  took 
care  to  see  that  Earley  was  duly  busy  in  the 
kitchen  garden,  and  the  maids  safely  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  Then  he  carried  it  to  the  lodge 
gate  himself  and  waited  for  a  passing  tradesman's 
cart.  Fortune  favoured  him;  the  butcher  came 
up  with  (had  Hugo  known  it)  veal  cutlets  for 
Hugo's  own  dinner.  Hugo  tipped  the  butcher 
and  asked  him  to  leave  the  suit-case  at  the  sta- 
tion to  be  sent  on  as  carted  luggage  to  its  address. 

Next  morning  he  learned  that  Tony  was  to  go 
with  Earley  to  fetch  extra  cream  from  Mr.  Bur- 
gess' farm. 

It  was  unfortunate  that  he  couldn't  get  any  of 
Tony's  clothes  without  causing  comment.  He 
had  tried  the  day  before,  but  beyond  a  jersey  and 
two  little  vests  (which  happened  to  be  little  Fay's), 
he  had  been  unable  to  find  anything.  Well,  Jan 
would  be  glad  enough  to  send  Tony's  clothes  when 
he  let  her  know  where  they  were  to  be  sent. 
Tony  had  changed  a  good  deal  from  the  silent, 
solemn  child  he  had  disliked  in  India.  He  was 
franker  and  more  talkative.  Sometimes  Hugo 
felt  that  the  child  wasn't  such  a  bad  little  chap, 
after  all.  But  the  very  evident  understanding 
between  Jan  and  Tony  filled  Hugo  with  a  dull 
sort  of  jealousy.  He  had  never  tried  to  win  the 
child,  but  nevertheless  he  resented  the  fact  that 
Tony's  attitude  to  Jan  and  Meg  was  one  of  per- 
fect trust  and  friendliness.  He  never  looked  at 
them  with  the  strange  judging,  weighing  look 
that  Hugo  hated  so  heartily. 

He  strolled  into  the  drive  and  waited.  Meg 
330 


A  Demonstration  in  Force 

and  Jan  were  busy  in  the  day-nursery,  making 
the  little  garments  that  were  outgrown  so  fast. 
Little  Fay  was  playing  on  the  Wren's  lawn  and 
singing  to  herself: 

The  fox  went  out  one  moonlight  night, 
And  he  played  to  the  moon  to  give  him  light, 
For  he  had  a  long  way  to  tlot  that  night 
Before  he  could  leach  his  den-oh. 

Hugo  listened  for  a  minute.  What  a  clear 
voice  the  child  had.  He  would  like  to  have  taken 
little  Fay,  but  already  he  stood  in  wholesome 
awe  of  his  daughter.  She  could  use  her  thor- 
oughly sound  lungs  for  other  purposes  than  song, 
and  she  hadn't  the  smallest  scruple  about  drawing 
universal  attention  to  any  grievance.  Now  Tony 
would  never  make  a  scene.  Hugo  recognised  and 
admired  that  quality  in  his  queer  little  son.  He 
did  not  know  that  Tony  already  ruled  his  little 
life  by  a  categorical  imperative  of  things  a  sahib 
must  not  do. 

At  the  drive  gate  he  met  Earley  carrying  the 
can  of  cream,  with  Tony  trotting  by  his  side. 

"I'm  going  into  the  village,  Tony,  and  Auntie 
Jan  says  you  may  as  well  come  with  me  for  com- 
pany. Will  you  come?" 

Tony  looked  dubious.  Still,  he  remembered 
that  Auntie  Jan  had  said  he  must  try  and  be  kind 
to  poor  Daddie,  who  had  been  so  ill  and  was  so 
sad. 

"All  right,"  he  said  with  a  little  sigh,  and  took 
the  hand  Hugo  held  out. 

"He'll  be  quite  safe  with  me,  Earley,"  Hugo 
331 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

said  with  a  pleasant  smile.  "Miss  Ross  knows 
I'm  going  to  take  him." 

Nevertheless  Earley  went  to  the  back  door 
and  asked  Hannah  to  inform  her  mistress  that 
"Mr.  Tancred  had  taken  Mazter  Tony  along  of 
Jim." 

Hannah  was  busy,  and  serene  in  her  concep- 
tion of  Hugo  as  the  sorrowing  widower,  did  not 
think  the  fact  that  Tony  had  gone  for  a  walk 
with  his  own  father  was  worth  a  journey  to  the 
day-nursery. 

"How  would  you  like  a  ride  down  to  the  junc- 
tion?" Hugo  said.  "I  believe  we  could  just 
catch  a  train  if  we  take  the  omnibus  at  'The 
Green  Hart.'  I  want  to  make  inquiries  about 
something  for  Auntie  Jan." 

Tony  loved  trains;  he  had  only  been  twice  to 
the  junction  since  he  came  to  Wren's  End;  it 
was  a  fascinating  place.  Daddie  seemed  in  an 
agreeable  mood  this  morning.  Auntie  Jan  would 
be  pleased  that  he  should  be  nice  to  him. 

It  all  fell  out  as  if  the  fates  had  arranged  things 
for  Hugo.  They  saw  very  few  people  in  the  vil- 
lage; only  one  old  woman  accompanied  them  in 
the  bus;  he  heard  his  father  ask  for  a  ticket  to 
the  junction,  and  they  arrived  without  incident 
of  any  kind. 

The  junction,  however,  was  busy.  There  were 
quite  a  lot  of  people,  and  when  Hugo  went  to  the 
ticket-office  he  had  to  stand  in  a  queue  of  others 
while  Tony  waited  outside  the  long  row. 

Suddenly  Tony  began  to  wonder  why  his  father 
should  go  to  the  ticket-office  at  all  to  inquire  for 

332 


A  Demonstration  in  Force 

a  parcel.  Tony  was  observant,  and  just  because 
everything  was  so  different  from  things  in  India 
small  incidents  were  impressed  upon  his  mind.  If 
his  father  was  going  on  anywhere  else,  he  wasn't 
going;  for  Peter  had  promised  to  take  them  out 
in  his  car  again  that  afternoon.  When  Hugo 
reached  the  window  of  the  ticket-office  Tony 
heard  something  about  Paddington. 

That  decided  him.  Nothing  would  induce  him 
to  go  to  Paddington. 

He  pushed  his  way  among  the  crowd  and  ran 
for  dear  life  up  the  stairs,  and  over  the  bridge  to 
the  other  platform  where  the  train  for  Amber 
Guiting  was  still  waiting,  lonely  and  deserted. 
He  knew  that  train.  It  went  up  and  down  all 
day,  for  Amber  Guiting  was  the  terminus.  No 
one  was  on  the  platform  as  he  ran  along.  With 
the  sure  instinct  of  the  hunted  he  passed  the  car- 
riages with  their  shut  doors.  Right  at  the  end 
was  a  van  with  empty  milk-cans.  He  had  seen 
a  porter  putting  them  in  the  moment  the  train 
stopped.  Tony  darted  into  the  van  and  crouched 
down  between  the  milk-cans  and  the  wall.  He 
thought  of  getting  into  one  of  them.  The  story 
of  Morgiana  and  the  Forty  Thieves  was  clear  in 
his  mind,  for  Meg  had  told  it  to  them  the  night 
before.  But  the  cans  were  so  high  and  narrow 
he  decided  that  it  was  impossible.  Someone 
slammed  the  door  of  the  van.  There  came  a 
bump  and  a  jar,  and  the  train  moved  out  onto 
a  siding  till  it  should  go  back  to  Amber  Guiting 
when  the  1.30  from  London  came  in.  Tony  sat 
quite  still  in  the  dark,  stuffy  van.  His  little  heart 

333 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

was  beating  with  hammer  strokes  against  his  ribs, 
but  his  face  expressed  nothing  but  scorn. 

Again  his  father  had  lied  to  him.  Again  he 
had  said  he  was  going  to  do  one  thing  when  he 
fully  intended  to  do  another.  The  pleasantness, 
the  kindliness,  the  apparent  desire  for  Tony's 
society  were  a  cheat.  Tony  spoke  rapidly  to  him- 
self in  Hindustani,  and  by  the  time  he  had  fin- 
ished expressing  his  views  Hugo  Tancred  hadn't 
a  shred  of  character  left. 

He  didn't  know  when  the  train  would  go  back 
to  Amber  Guiting.  It  might  not  be  till  evening. 
Tony  could  wait.  Some  time  it  would  go  back, 
and  once  in  that  dear,  safe  place  alt  would  be  well. 

He  disliked  the  sound  of  Paddington;  it  had 
to  do  with  London,  he  knew.  He  didn't  mind 
London,  but  he  wasn't  going  there  with  his  father, 
and  no  Meg  and  no  Jan  and  no  little  Fay  and  no 
land  sahibs  who  were  real  sahibs. 

He  was  very  hungry,  and  his  eyes  grew  a  bit 
misty  as  he  thought  of  little  Fay  consuming  scones 
and  milk  at  the  "elevens"  Meg  was  always  so 
careful  they  should  have. 

A  new  and  troubling  thought  perturbed  him. 
Did  Auntie  Jan  know  he  Tiad  gone  at  all  ?  Would 
she  be  frightened?  Would  she  get  that  look  on 
her  dear  face  that  he  couldn't  bear  to  see?  That 
Auntie  Jan  loved  them  both  with  her  whole  heart 
was  now  one  of  the  fixed  stars  in  Tony's  firma- 
ment of  beliefs.  He  began  to  think  that  per- 
haps it  would  be  better  for  Auntie  Jan  to  give  his 
father  some  of  her  twinkly  things  and  let  him  go 
away  and  leave  them  in  peace;  but  he  dismissed 

334 


A  Demonstration  in  Force 

that   thought  as  cowardly  and  unworthy  of  a 
sahib. 

Oh,  dear !  it  was  very  long  sitting  in  the  dark, 
scrunched  up  behind  those  cans.  He  must  tell 
himself  stories  to  pass  the  time;  and  he  started 
to  relate  the  interminable  legend  of  Cocky-locky 
and  Henny-Penny  who  by  their  superior  subtlety 
evaded  the  snares  set  for  them  by  Toddy-Loddy 
the  fox.  He  felt  a  sort  of  kinship  with  those 
harried  fowls.  Gradually  the  constant  repeti- 
tion of  the  various  other  birds  involved,  "Juckie- 
Puckie,  Goosie-Loosie,  Turkey-lurkey  and  Swan- 
nie-Lonnie,"  had  a  soothing  effect,  and  Tony  fell 
asleep. 

Meanwhile  Hugo  had  hunted  through  every 
corner  of  the  four  platforms;  he  had  even  gone  to 
look  for  the  Amber  Guiting  train,  but  was  told  it 
always  was  moved  on  to  a  siding  directly  it  had 
discharged  its  passengers. 

It  was  mysterious,  it  was  profoundly  annoy- 
ing, but  it  was  not,  to  Hugo,  alarming.  He  sus- 
pected that  Peter  Ledgard  was  in  some  way 
mixed  up  in  it;  that  he.  himself,  had  been  shad- 
owed and  that  Peter  nad  stolen  Tony  in  the 
crowd.  In  his  mistrustful  wrath  he  endowed 
Peter  with  such  abnormal  foresight  and  acumen 
as  he  certainly  did  not  possess. 

It  really  was  an  'impossible  situation.  Hugo 
could  not  go  about  asking  porters  and  people  for 
a  lost  child,  or  the  neighbourhood  would  be 
roused.  He  couldn't  go  back  to  Wren's  End 
without  Tony,  or  there  would  be  the  devil  to  pay. 

335 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

He  even  got  a  porter  to  look  in  every  carriage  of 
the  side-tracked  train  for  a  mythical  despatch- 
case,  and  accompanied  him  in  his  search.  Natu- 
rally they  didn't  seek  a  despatch-case  in  the  van. 

He  had  lost  his  train,  but  there  was  another, 
very  slow,  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later, 
and  this  he  decided  to  take.  He  would  telegraph 
to  Jan  from  London.  Somehow  he  was  not  in 
the  least  concerned  about  the  fate  of  Tony. 
Peter  and  Peter's  car  had  something  to  do  with 
this  mysterious  disappearance.  He  was  sure  of 
that. 

Well,  if  this  particular  deal  had  failed,  he  must 
shuffle  the  cards  and  deal  again.  In  any  case 
Jan  should  see  that  where  his  children  were  con- 
cerned he  was  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

He  was  sorry,  though,  he  had  bought  the  half- 
ticket  for  Tony,  and  to  ask  them  to  take  it  back 
might  cause  comment. 

As  the  slow  train  steamed  out  from  the  junc- 
tion Hugo  felt  a  very  ill-used  man. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Anne  Chitt  brought  in  the 
tray  with  two  cups  of  milk  and  a  plate  of  Han- 
nah's excellent  scones. 

''Please  go  into  the  kitchen  garden  and  ask 
Master  Tony  to  come  for  his  lunch,"  Jan  said. 

Presently  Anne  returned.  "Master  Tony  ain't 
in  the  garden,  miss;  and  'Annah  says  as  'e  most 
likely  ain't  back  yet,  miss." 

"Back !    Back  from  where?" 

"Please,  miss,  'Annah  says  as  'is  pa've  took 
him  with  him  down  the  village." 

336 


A  Demonstration  in  Force 

Jan  laid  her  sewing  on  the  table  and  got  up. 

"Is  Earley  in  the  garden?" 

"Yes,  miss.  I  ast  Earley  an'  'e  says  the  same 
as  'Annah.  Mr.  Tancred  'ave  took  Master  Tony 
with  'im." 

Anne  went  away,  and  Jan  and  Meg,  who  had 
stopped  her  machining  to  listen,  stared  at  each 
other  across  the  table. 

"I  suppose  they'll  be  back  directly,"  Jan  said 
uneasily.  "I'll  go  and  ask  Earley  when  Hugo 
took  Tony." 

"He  got  up  to  breakfast  to-day  for  the  first 
time,"  Meg  remarked  irrelevantly. 

Jan  went  out  into  the  Wrens'  garden  and 
through  Anthony's  gate.  She  fumbled  at  the 
catch,  for  her  hands  trembled. 

Earley  was  picking  peas. 

"What  tune  did  Mr.  Tancred  take  Master 
Tony?"  she  asked. 

"Just  as  we  got  back  from  fetchin'  the  cream, 
miss.  I  should  say  as  it  was  about  'alf-past  nine. 
He  did  meet  us  at  the  lodge,  and  took  the  young 
gentleman  with  'im  for  company — 'e  said  so." 

"Thank  you,  Earley,"  Jan  said  quietly. 

Earley  looked  at  her  and  over  his  broad,  good- 
natured  face  there  passed  a  shade  of  misgiving. 
"I  did  tell  Hannah  to  let  you  know  the  minute  I 
cum  in,  miss." 

"Thank  you,"  Jan  said  again;  "that's  quite 
right." 

"Be  you  feelin'  the  'eat,  miss?"  Earley  asked 
anxiously.  "I  don't  think  as  you  ought  to  be 
out  without  an  'at." 

337 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"No,  I  expect  not.     I'll  go  and  get  one." 

By  lunch  time  there  was  still  no  sign  of  Hugo 
and  Tony;  and  Jan  was  certainly  as  much  scared 
as  even  Hugo  could  have  wished. 

Meg  had  been  down  to  the  village  and  discov- 
ered that  Hugo  and  Tony  had  gone  by  bus  to  the 
junction  in  time  for  the  10.23. 

Peter  was  playing  golf  with  Squire  Walcote  on 
a  little  course  he  had  made  in  some  of  his  fields. 
It  was  impossible  to  go  and  hunt  for  Peter  without 
giving  away  the  whole  situation,  and  Jan  was 
loth  to  do  that. 

She  and  Meg  stared  at  one  another  in  dismayed 
impotence. 

Jan  ordered  the  pony-carriage;  she  would  drive 
to  the  junction,  leaving  a  note  for  Peter  at  "The 
Green  Hart,"  but  it  was  only  too  likely  he  would 
lunch  with  the  Walcotes. 

"You  must  eat  something,"  said  Meg.  "  There's 
a  train  in  at  a  quarter  to  two;  you'd  better  meet 
that  before  you  go  to  the  junction;  the  guard 
might  be  able  to  tell  you  something." 

At  lunch  little  Fay  wept  because  there  was  no 
Tony. 


338 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IN  WHICH  SEVERAL  PEOPLE  SPEAK  THEIR  MINDS 

"  A  FTER  all,  you  know,"  Meg  said,  with  in- 
-**•  tent  to  comfort,  "no  great  harm  can  hap- 
pen to  Tony.  Hugo  will  only  take  the  child  a 
little  way  off,  to  see  what  he  can  get  out  of  you." 

"It's  the  moral  harm  to  Tony  that  I  mind," 
Jan  answered  sadly.  "He  was  getting  so  happy 
and  trustful,  so  much  more  like  other  children. 
I  know  his  father  has  got  him  to  go  away  by 
some  ruse,  and  he  will  be  miserable  and  embit- 
tered because  he  has  been  cheated  again." 

"Shall  you  drive  to  the  junction  if  you  hear 
nothing  at  the  station?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,  though  I've  little  hope  of 
learning  anything  there.  You  see,  people  come 
there  from  three  directions.  They  couldn't  pos- 
sibly notice  everybody  as  they  do  at  a  little  sta- 
tion like  this." 

"Wait,"  said  Meg,  "don't  go  to  the  junction. 
Have  you  forgotten  Mr.  Ledgard  was  to  fetch  us 
all  at  half -past  two?  He'll  run  you  over  in  his 
car  in  a  quarter  the  time  you'd  take  to  go  with 
Placid,  and  be  some  use  as  well.  You'd  better 
come  straight  back  here  if  you  get  no  news,  and 
I'll  keep  him  till  you  get  back  if  he  turns  up  first." 

By  this  time  the  pony-cart  was  at  the  door. 
Meg  helped  Jan  in,  kissed  her,  and  whispered, 
"Cheer  up ;  I  feel  somehow  you'll  hear  something," 

339 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

and  Jan  drove  off.  She  found  a  boy  to  hold  the 
pony  when  she  reached  the  station,  and  went  in. 
The  old  porter  was  waiting  for  the  train,  and  she 
asked  if  he  happened  to  notice  her  little  nephew 
that  morning. 

"Yes,  miss,  I  did  see  'un  along  with  a  holder 
gentleman  unbeknownst  to  me." 

Jan  walked  up  and  down  in  an  agony  of  doubt 
and  apprehension. 

The  train  came  in.  There  were  but  few  pas- 
sengers, and  among  them  was  Miles,  come  down 
again  for  the  week-end. 

He  greeted  Jan  with  effusion.  Had  she  come 
to  meet  anyone,  or  was  it  a  parcel? 

To  his  astonishment  Miss  Ross  broke  from  him 
and  rushed  at  the  guard  right  up  at  the  far  end 
of  the  train. 

The  guard  evidently  disclaimed  all  knowledge 
of  the  parcel,  for  Miles  saw  him  shaking  his  head 
vigorously. 

"Any  other  luggage,  sir?"  asked  the  old  por- 
ter, lifting  out  Miles'  suit-case. 

"Yes,  a  box  of  rods  in  the  van." 

The  old  porter  went  to  the  end  of  the  train 
near  where  Jan  had  been  to  the  guard  three  min- 
utes before. 

He  opened  the  van  door  and  nearly  tumbled 
backward  in  astonishment,  for  right  in  the  door- 
way, blinking  at  the  light,  stood  "Miss  Rass' 
young  gen'leman." 

"Well,  I  am  blessed!"  exclaimed  the  porter, 
and  lifted  him  out. 

Tony  was  dreadfully  dirty.  The  heat,  the 
340 


In  Which  Several  People  Speak  Their  Minds 

dust,  the  tears  he  had  shed  when  he  woke  up  with 
the  putting  in  of  luggage  at  the  junction  and 
couldn't  understand  what  had  happened  to  him, 
all  combined  to  make  him  about  the  most  misera- 
ble-looking and  disreputable  small  boy  you  could 
imagine.  He  had  left  his  hat  behind  the  milk- 
cans. 

Jan  had  gone  out  of  the  station.  She  had 
passed  Miles  blindly,  and  her  face  caused  that 
young  man  to  whistle  softly,  just  once.  Then  he 
dashed  after  her. 

"Your  haunt  bin  askin'  for  you,"  the  old  porter 
said  to  Tony.  "Teared  to  me  she  was  a  bit 
worried-like." 

Tony  moved  stiffly  down  the  little  station,  the 
old  porter  following  with  Miles'  luggage  on  a 
truck. 

The  ticket-collector  stood  in  the  doorway. 
Tony,  of  course,  had  none.  "Don't  you  say 
nothin',"  whispered  the  old  porter.  "'Is  haunt'll 
make  it  good;  there's  some  sort  of  a  misteree." 

Tony  felt  queer  and  giddy.  Jan,  already  in 
her  little  pony-trap,  had  started  to  drive  away. 
Miles,  waiting  for  his  baggage  beside  his  uncle's 
car,  saw  the  dejected  little  figure  appear  in  the 
station  entrance. 

He  let  fly  a  real  barrack-square  bellow  after 
Jan,  and  she  pulled  up. 

She  looked  back  and  saw  the  reason  for  Cap- 
tain Middleton's  amazing  roar. 

She  swung  the  indignant  Placid  round,  and  in 
two  minutes  she  was  out  of  the  pony-trap  and 
had  Tony  in  her  strong  arms. 

341 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Miles  tipped  the  porter  and  drove  off.  He, 
too,  realised  that  there  was  some  sort  of  a  "mis- 
teree,"  something  painful  and  unpleasant  for 
Miss  Ross,  and  that  she  would  probably  prefer 
that  no  questions  were  asked. 

Whatever  mischief  could  that  young  Tony  have 
been  after  ?  And  dared  Miles  call  at  Wren's  End 
that  evening,  in  the  hope  of  a  glimpse  of  Meg,  or 
would  it  look  inquisitive  and  ill-bred? 

Placid  turned  a  mild,  inquiring  head  to  discover 
the  reason  for  this  new  delay. 

When  Jan,  after  paying  Tony's  fare  back  from 
the  junction,  had  driven  away,  the  old  porter,  the 
ticket-collector,  and  the  station-master  sat  in 
conclave  on  the  situation.  And  their  unanimous 
conclusion  was  summed  up  by  the  old  porter: 
"Byes  be  a  mishtiful  set  of  young  varmints,  an' 
it  warn't  no  job  for  a  lone  'ooman  to  'ave  to  bring 
'em  up." 

The  lone  woman  in  question  held  her  reins  in 
one  hand  and  her  other  arm  very  tightly  round 
the  dirty  little  boy  on  the  seat  beside  her. 

As  they  drove  through  the  village  neither  of 
them  spoke,  but  when  they  reached  the  Wren's 
End  Road,  Tony  burst  into  tears. 

"I  am  so  hungry,"  he  wailed,  "and  I  feel  so 
nasty  in  my  inside." 

As  Meg  was  putting  him  to  bed  that  night  she 
inquired  if  he  had  done  anything  with  his  green 
jersey,  for  she  couldn't  find  it. 

"No,"  Tony  answered.  "I  haven't  had  it  for 
a  long  tune — it's  been  too  warm." 

342 


In  Which  Several  People  Speak  Their  Minds 

"It's  very  odd,"  said  Meg.  "It  has  disap- 
peared, and  so  have  two  vests  of  little  Fay's  that 
I  put  in  the  nursery  ottoman  to  mend.  Where 
can  they  be?  I  hate  to  lose  things;  it  seems  so 
untidy." 

"I  'spect,"  said  Tony,  thoughtfully,  "my 
Daddie  took  them.  He'd  never  leave  without 
takin  somefin." 

There  was  a  dinner-party  at  the  Manor  House. 
Peter  had  come  down  from  town  for  it,  and  this 
tune  he  was  staying  at  Wren's  End.  Lady  Penel- 
ope and  her  husband  were  to  dine  and  sleep  at 
the  Manor,  likewise  Miles,  who  had  come  down 
with  Peter;  and  Lady  Pen  contrived  thoroughly 
to  upset  her  aunt  before  dinner,  by  relating  how 
she  had  met  Miles  with  Miss  Morton  and  her 
father  hi  Cheltenham.  And  poor  Lady  Mary  had 
been  hoping  that  the  unfortunate  affair  would  die 
a  natural  death.  She  had  asked  the  prettiest 
girl  in  the  neighbourhood  for  Miles  to  take  in, 
and  now,  looking  down  the  table  at  him,  she 
would  have  said  he  was  as  well-pleased  with  his 
neighbour  as  any  young  man  could  be.  The 
Freams  were  there  and  Mr.  Withells,  the  pretty 
girl's  mamma  and  a  bride  and  bridegroom — four- 
teen in  all.  A  dangerous  number  to  ask,  the 
Squire  had  declared;  one  might  so  easily  have 
fallen  through.  No  one  did,  however,  and  Peter 
found  himself  allotted  to  Lady  Penelope,  while 
Jan's  fate  was  the  bridegroom.  "His  wife  won't 
be  jealous  of  Miss  Ross,  you  know,"  Lady  Mary 
had  said  while  arranging  her  couples. 

343 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

It  happened  that  Peter  sat  opposite  to  Jan, 
and  he  surveyed  her  across  the  sweet-peas  with 
considerable  satisfaction.  He  had  never  seen  Jan 
in  what  her  niece  bluntly  called  "a  nekked  dless" 
before.  To-night  she  wore  black,  in  some  soft, 
filmy  stuff  from  which  her  fine  arms  and  shoulders 
and  beautiful  neck  stood  out  in  challenging  white- 
ness. Her  hair,  too,  had  "pretty  twinkly  things" 
in  it,  and  she  wore  a  long  chain  of  small  but 
well-matched  pearls,  her  father's  last  gift  to  her. 
Yes,  Jan  was  undoubtedly  distinguished,  and  oh, 
thank  heaven !  she  had  a  clean  face. 

Beautiful  Lady  Pen  was  painted  to  the  eyes, 
and  her  maid  was  not  quite  skilful  in  blending 
her  complexion  rightly  with  her  vivid  hair;  beau- 
tiful hah*  it  was,  with  a  large  ripple  that  was  most 
attractive,  but  Mr.  Withells,  sitting  on  the  other 
side  of  Lady  Pen,  decided  that  he  didn't  approve 
of  her.  She  was  flamboyant  and  daring  of  speech. 
She  made  him  nervous.  He  felt  sincerely  sorry 
for  Pottinger. 

Peter  found  Lady  Pen  very  amusing,  and 
perhaps  she  rather  neglected  her  other  neigh- 
bour. 

The  dinner  was  excellent  and  long;  and  after 
it  the  ladies,  when  they  left  the  men  to  smoke, 
strolled  about  on  the  terrace,  and  Jan  found  her- 
self side  by  side  with  Lady  Penelope. 

"How's  your  little  friend?"  she  asked  abruptly. 
"I  suppose  you  know  my  cousin's  playin'  round ?" 

Jan  was  a  little  taller  than  Lady  Pen,  and 
turned  her  head  slowly  to  look  at  her:  "I'm 
afraid  I  don't  quite  understand,"  she  said. 

344 


In  Which  Several  People  Speak  Their  Minds 

"Surely,"  Lady  Pen  retorted,  "you  must  have 
seen." 

"If  you  mean  that  Captain  Middleton  admires 
Miss  Morton,  I  believe  he  does.  But  you  see,  to 
say  that  anyone  is  'playing  round'  rather  reflects 
on  me,  because  she  is  in  my  charge." 

"I  should  say  you've  got  a  pretty  good  hand- 
ful," Lady  Pen  said  sympathetically. 

"I  don't  think  you  quite  understand  Miss  Mor- 
ton. I've  known  her,  as  it  happens,  known  her 
well,  for  close  upon  nine  years." 

"And  you  think  well  of  her?" 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  express  how  well." 

"You're  a  good  friend,  Miss  Ross.  I  had  oc- 
casion to  think  so  once  before — now  I'm  pretty 
sure  of  it.  What's  the  sayin' — 'Tune  tryeth 
thingummy'?" 

"Troth?"  Jan  suggested. 

"That's  it.  'Time  tryeth  troth.'  I  never  was 
any  good  at  quotations  and  things.  But  now, 
look  here,  I'd  like  to  ask  you  somethin'  rather 
particular  .  .  ."  Lady  Pen  took  Jan's  arm  and 
propelled  her  gently  down  a  side-walk  out  of  ear- 
shot of  the  others.  "Suppose  you  knew  folks — 
and  they  weren't  exactly  friends,  but  pleasant, 
you  know,  and  all  that,  and  you  were  aware  that 
they  went  about  sayin'  things  about  a  third  per- 
son who  also  wasn't  exactly  a  friend,  but  .  .  . 
well,  likeable;  and  you  believed  that  what  the 
first  lot  said  gave  a  wrong  impression  ...  in 
short,  was  very  damaging — none  of  it  any  business 
of  yours,  mind — would  you  feel  called  upon  to  do 
anything?" 

345 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

The  two  tall  women  stopped  and  faced  one 
another. 

The  moon  shone  full  on  Lady  Pen's  beautiful 
painted  face,  and  Jan  saw,  for  the  first  time,  that 
the  eyes  under  the  delicately  darkened  eyebrows 
were  curiously  like  Miles'. 

"It's  always  tiresome  to  interfere  in  other 
people's  business,"  said  Jan,  "but  it's  not  quite 
fair,  is  it,  not  to  stand  up  for  people  if  you  believe 
an  accusation  to  be  untrue — whether  you  like 
them  or  not.  You  see,  it  may  be  such  a  serious 
thing  for  the  person  implicated." 

"I  believe  you're  right,"  said  Lady  Pen,  "but 
oh,  lord !  what  a  worry  it  will  be." 

Lady  Mary  called  to  them  to  come,  for  the 
bride  was  going  to  sing. 

The  bride's  singing  was  not  particularly  pleas- 
ing, and  she  was  followed  by  Miles,  who  per- 
formed "Drake's  Drum,"  to  his  aunt's  rather  un- 
certain accompaniment,  in  a  voice  that  shook  the 
walls.  Poor  Mr.  Withells  fled  out  by  the  window, 
and  sat  on  the  step  on  his  carefully-folded  hand- 
kerchief, but  even  so  the  cold  stones  penetrated, 
and  he  came  in  again. 

And  after  "Drake's  Drum"  it  was  time  to  go 
home. 

Jan  and  Peter  walked  back  through  the  scented 
night,  Peter  carrying  her  slippers  in  a  silk  bag,  for 
the  sternly  economical  Meg  wouldn't  hear  of 
wasting  good  suede  slippers  at  22s.  6d.  a  pair  by 
walking  half  a  mile  in  them,  no  matter  how  dry 
it  was. 

When  all  the  guests  had  gone,  Lady  Pen  seized 
346 


In  Which  Several  People  Speak  Their  Minds 

Miles  by  the  arm  and  implored  him  to  take  her 
outside  for  a  cigarette.  "That  little  Withells  had 
given  her  the  hump." 

Lady  Mary  said  it  was  bed-tune  and  the  ser- 
vants wanted  to  lock  up.  The  Squire  and  Mr. 
Pottinger  melted  away  imperceptibly  to  smoke 
in  peace  elsewhere. 

Lady  Pen,  still  holding  Miles  in  an  iron  grip, 
pulled  him  over  to  the  door,  which  she  shut,  led 
him  back,  and  stood  in  front  of  Lady  Mary,  who 
was  just  going  to  ring  for  the  servants  to  shut  the 
windows. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Aunt  Mary.  I've  got  some- 
thin'  to  say,  and  I  want  to  say  it  before  Miles." 

"Oh,  don't  let  us  go  into  all  that  to-night," 
Lady  Mary  implored,  "if  what  you  have  to  say 
has  anything  to  do  with  what  you  told  me  before 
dinner." 

"It  has  and  it  hasn't.  One  thing  I've  decided 
is  that  I've  got  to  tell  the  Trents  they  are  liars; 
and  the  other  thing  is  that,  though  I  disapprove 
with  all  my  strength  of  the  game  Miles  is  play- 
ing, I  believe  that  little  girl  is  square  .  .  ." 

"You  see,"  Lady  Pen  went  on,  turning  to 
Miles,  "I've  repeated  things  to  Aunt  Mary  that 
I: heard  from  the  Trents  lately — but  I  heard  a 
different  story  at  the  time — and  though  I  think 
you,  Miles,  are  throwing  yourself  away,  I  won't 
be  a  party  to  spreadin'  lies.  Somethin'  that  pvu- 
dree  woman  with  the  good  skin  said  to-night 
made  me  feel  a  swab " 

"I'm  glad  you've  spoken  up  like  this,  Pen," 
Miles  said  slowly,  "for  if  you  hadn't,  we  couldn't 

347 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

have  been  friends  any  more.  I  promised  Meg  I 
wouldn't  tell  anybody — but  I've  asked  her  to 
marry  me  ...  and  though  she  isn't  over  keen, 
I  believe  I'll  get  her  to  do  it  some  day." 

"Isn't  over  keen?"  Lady  Mary  repeated  indig- 
nantly. "Why,  she  ought  to  be  down  on  her 
knees  with  joy!" 

Miles  laughed.  "She's  not  a  kneeling  sort, 
Aunt  Mary.  It's  I  who'll  have  to  do  the  kneeling, 
I  can  tell  you." 

Lady  Pen  was  looking  straight  at  her  cousin 
with  the  beautiful  candid  eyes  that  were  so  like 
his  own.  "Just  for  curiosity,"  she  said  slowly, 
"I'd  dearly  like  to  know  if  Meg  Morton  ever  said 
anything  to  you  about  me — anything  rather  con- 
fidential— I  won't  be  offended,  I'd  just  like  to 
know." 

"About  you?"  Miles  echoed  in  a  puzzled 
voice. 

"About  my  appearance,  you  know — my  looks." 

"I  think  she  called  you  good-looking,  like 
everybody  else,  but  I  don't  remember  that  she 
was  specially  enthusiastic.  To  tell  you  the  hon- 
est truth,  Pen,  we've  had  other  things  to  talk 
about  than  you." 

"Now  listen,  you  two,"  said  Lady  Pen.  "That 
little  girl  is  straight.  You  won't  understand, 
Miles,  but  Aunt  Mary  will.  Meg  Morton  knew 
I  was  against  her — about  you,  Miles — women 
always  know  these  things.  And  yet  she  held  her 
tongue  when  she  could  have  said  something  true 
that  I'd  rather  not  have  talked  about.  You'll 
hold  your  tongue,  old  chap,  and  so  will  Aunt 

348 


In  Which  Several  People  Speak  Their  Minds 

Mary.  I've  got  her  hair;  got  it  on  this  minute. 
That's  why  she's  such  a  croppy." 

Lady  Mary  sat  down  on  the  nearest  chair  and 
sighed  deeply. 

"It's  been  a  real  satisfaction  to  me,  this  trans- 
formation, because  I  know  where  it  came  from." 

Miles  took  his  cousin's  hand  and  kissed  it. 
"If  somebody  had  to  have  it,  I'm  glad  it's  you," 
he  said. 

"Yes,  she's  straight,"  Lady  Pen  repeated.  "I 
don't  believe  there's  many  girls  who  would  have 
kept  quiet — not  when  the  man  they  cared  about 
was  being  got  at.  You  may  ring  now,  Aunt 
Mary.  I'm  through.  Good  night." 

******** 

"Do  you  realise,"  said  Peter  as  they  turned  out 
of  the  dark  Manor  drive  into  the  moonlit  road, 
"that  I've  been  here  on  and  off  over  a  month, 
and  that  we  are  now  nearly  at  the  end  of  July?" 

"You've  only  just  come  to  us"  said  Jan. 
"You  can't  count  the  time  you  stayed  at  'The 
Green  Hart'  as  a  visit." 

"And  now  I  have  come  .  .  .  I'm  not  quite  sure 
I've  done  wisely,  unless  .  .  ." 

"Unless  what?" 

"Unless  I  can  put  something  through  .that  I 
came  back  from  India  to  do." 

Jan  did  not  answer.  They  walked  on  in  silence, 
and  Peter  looked  at  the  moon. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "you've  always  had  a  pretty 
clear  idea  why  I  came  home  from  India  .  .  . 
haven't  you?" 

"It  was  time  for  your  leave,"  Jan  said  ner- 
349 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

vously.    "It  isn't  good   to  stay  out  there  too 
long." 

"I  shouldn't  have  taken  leave  this  year, 
though,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you." 

"You've  always  been  kind  and  helpful  to  me 
...  I  hope  it  hasn't  been  very  .  .  .  incon- 
venient." 

Peter  laughed,  and  stopped  in  the  middle  of 
the  road. 

"I'm  fond  of  fencing,"  he  said  lightly,  "and 
free  play's  all  very  well  and  pretty;  but  I've 
always  thought  that  the  real  thing,  with  the 
buttons  off  the  foils,  must  have  been  a  lot  more 
sport  than  anything  we  get  now." 

Again  Jan  was  silent. 

"You've  fenced  with  me,  Jan,"  he  said  slowly, 
"ever  since  I  turned  up  that  day  unexpectedly. 
Now,  I  want  a  straight  answer.  Do  you  care  at 
all,  or  have  you  only  friendship  for  me?  Look 
at  me;  tell  me  the  truth." 

"It's  all  so  complicated  and  difficult,"  she  fal- 
tered, and  her  eyes  fell  beneath  Peter's. 

"What  is?" 

"This  caring — when  you  aren't  a  free  agent." 

"Free  fiddlestick!  You  either  care  or  you 
don't— which  is  it?" 

"I  care  a  great  deal  too  much  for  my  own 
peace  of  mind,"  said  Jan. 

"I  am  quite  satisfied,"  said  Peter.  And  if  Mr. 
Withells  had  seen  what  happened  to  the  "sen- 
sible" Miss  Ross  just  then,  his  neatly-brushed 
hair  would  have  stood  straight  on  end. 

In  the  road,  too ! 

350 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

AUGUST,    1914 

,"  said  Jan,  "it  would  be  like  marrying 
a  widow  .  .  .  with  encumbrances." 

"But  you  don't  happen  to  be  a  widow — be- 
sides, if  you  were,  and  had  a  dozen  encumbrances, 
if  we  want  to  get  married  it's  nobody's  business 
but  our  own." 

Peter  spoke  testily.  He  wanted  Jan  to  marry 
him  before  he  went  back  to  India  in  October, 
and  if  he  got  the  billet  he  hoped  for,  to  follow  him, 
taking  the  two  children  out,  early  in  November. 

But  Jan  saw  a  thousand  lions  in  the  way.  She 
was  pulled  in  this  direction  and  that,  and  though 
she  knew  she  had  got  to  depend  on  Peter  to — as 
she  put  it — "a  dreadful  extent,"  yet  she  hesitated 
to  saddle  him  with  her  decidedly  explosive  affairs, 
without  a  great  deal  more  consideration  than  he 
seemed  disposed  to  allow  her. 

Hugo,  for  the  present,  was  quiet.  He  was  in 
Guernsey  with  his  people,  and  beyond  a  letter  in 
which  he  directly  accused  Peter  Ledgard  of  ab- 
ducting Tony  when  his  father  was  taking  him  to 
visit  his  grandparents,  Jan  had  heard  nothing. 

By  Peter's  advice  she  did  not  answer  this  letter. 
But  they  both  knew  that  Hugo  was  only  waiting 
to  make  some  other  and  more  unpleasant  demon- 
stration than  the  last. 

"You  see,"  Jan  began  again,  "I've  got  so  many 
351 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

people  to  think  of.  The  children  and  Meg  and 
the  house  and  all  the  old  servants.  .  .  .  You 
mustn't  hustle  me,  dear." 

"Yes,  I  see  all  that;  but  I've  got  you  to  think 
of,  and  if  we're  married  and  anything  happens  to 
me  you'll  get  your  pension,  and  I  want  you  to 
have  that." 

"And  if  anything  happened  to  me,  you'd  be 
saddled  with  the  care  of  two  little  children  who've 
got  a  thoroughly  unsatisfactory  father,  who  can 
always  make  life  hateful  for  them  and  for  you. 
No,  Peter,  it  wouldn't  be  fair — we  must  wait  and 
see  how  things  work  out." 

"At  present,"  Peter  said  gloomily,  "it  looks  as 
if  things  were  working  out  to  a  fair  bust-up  all 
round." 

This  was  on  the  30th  of  July. 

Peter  went  up  to  London,  intending  to  return 
on  the  first  to  stay  over  the  Bank  Holiday,  but  he 
did  not  come.  He  wanted  to  be  within  easy 
reach  of  recalling  cablegram. 

Meg  got  a  wire  from  Miles  on  Saturday:  "Try 
to  come  up  for  to-morrow  and  Monday  I  can't 
leave  town  must  see  you." 

And  half  an  hour  after  it,  came  a  note  from 
Squire  Walcote,  asking  her  to  accept  his  escort, 
as  he  and  Lady  Mary  were  going  up  to  the  Gros- 
venor,  and  hoped  Meg  would  be  their  guest. 

It  was  during  their  stay  in  London  that  Lady 
Mary  and  the  Squire  got  the  greatest  surprise  of 
their  whole  lives. 

Miles,  looking  bigger  than  ever  in  uniform, 
rushed  in  and  demanded  an  interview  with  Meg 

352 


August,  1914 

alone  in  their  private  room.  He  showed  her  a 
special  licence,  and  ordered,  rather  than  requested, 
that  she  should  marry  him  at  once. 

"I  can't,"  she  said,  "it's  no  use  asking  me  .  .  . 
I  can't:' 

"Listen;  have  you  any  objection  to  me?" 

Meg  pulled  a  little  away  from  him  and  pre- 
tended to  look  him  up  and  down.  "No  ...  in 
fact  ...  I  love  every  bit  of  you — especially  your 
boots." 

"Have  you  thought  how  likely  it  is  that  I  may 
not  come  back  ...  if  there's  war?" 

"Don't!"  said  Meg.  "Don't  put  it  into 
words." 

"Then  why  won't  you  marry  me,  and  let  me 
feel  that,  whether  I'm  killed  or  not,  I've  had  the 
thing  I  wanted  most  in  this  world?" 

"Dear,  I  can't  help  it,  but  I  feel  if  I  married 
you  now  .  .  .  you  would  never  come  back  .  .  . 
but  if  I  wait  ...  if  I  don't  try  to  grasp  this 
wonderful  thing  too  greedily  ...  it  will  come  to 
us  both.  I  daren't  marry  you,  Miles." 

"Suppose  I'm  all  smashed  up  ...  I  couldn't 
ask  you  then  .  .  .  suppose  I  come  back  minus  an 
arm  or  a  leg,  or  blind  or  something?" 

"If  the  least  little  bit  of  you  comes  back,  I'll 
marry  that;  not  you  or  anyone  else  could  stop  me 
then." 

"You'd  make  it  easier  all  round  if  you'd  marry 
me  now  .  .  ." 

"That's  it  .  .  .  I  don't  want  it  to  be  easier.  If 
I  was  your  wife,  how  could  I  go  on  being  nurse  to 
those  children?" 

353 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"I  wouldn't  stop  you — you  could  go  back  to 
Miss  Ross  and  do  just  exactly  what  you're  doing. 
I  agree  with  you — the  children  are  cheery — 

Meg  shook  her  head.  "No;  if  I  was  your  wife, 
it  wouldn't  do.  As  it  is  ...  the  nursemaid  has 
got  her  soldier,  and  that's  as  it  should  be." 

"Will  you  marry  me  the  first  leave  I  get,  if  I 
live  to  get  any?" 

"I'll  think  about  that." 

He  gave  her  the  ring  she  had  refused  before. 
Such  an  absurd  little  ring,  with  its  one  big  sap- 
phire set  with  diamonds,  and  "no  backing  to  it," 
Miles  said. 

And  he  gave  her  a  very  heavy  brass-studded 
collar  for  William,  and  on  the  plate  was  engraved 
her  name  and  address. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  "Miss  Ross  would 
never  really  have  him,  and  I'd  like  to  think  he  was 
your  dog.  And  here's  his  licence." 

Then  Miles  took  her  right  up  in  his  arms  and 
hugged  her  close,  and  set  her  gently  down  and 
left  her. 

That  night  he  asked  his  uncle  and  a  brother- 
officer  to  witness  his  will.  He  had  left  most  of 
his  money  among  his  relations,  but  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds  he  had  left  to  Meg  absolutely,  in 
the  event  of  his  being  killed  before  they  were 
married. 

His  uncle  pointed  out  that  there  was  nothing 
said  about  her  possible  marriage.  "She'll  be  all 
the  better  for  a  little  money  of  her  own  if  she  does 
marry,"  Miles  said  simply.  "I  don't  want  her 
to  go  mourning  all  her  days,  but  I  do  want  the 

354 


August,  1914 

capital  tied  up  on  her  so  that  he  couldn't  waste 
it  ...  if  he  was  an  unfortunate  sort  of  chap 
over  money." 

The  Squire  blew  his  nose. 

"You  see,"  Miles  went  on,  "she's  a  queer  little 
thing.  If  I  left  her  too  much,  she'd  refuse  it  al- 
together. Now  I  trust  to  you,  Uncle  Edward,  to 
see  that  she  takes  this." 

"I'll  do  my  best,  my  boy,  I'll  do  my  best,"  said 
the  Squire;  "but  I  hope  with  all  my  soul  you'll 
make  settlements  on  her  yourself  before  long." 

"So  do  I,  but  you  never  can  tell  in  war,  you 
know.  And  we  must  always  remember,"  Miles 
added  with  his  broad,  cheerful  smile,  "there's  a 
good  deal  of  target  about  me." 

Miles  wrote  to  the  little  Major,  a  very  manly, 
straightforward  letter,  telling  him  what  he  had 
done,  but  swearing  him  to  secrecy  as  regarded 
Meg. 

He  also  wrote  to  Jan,  and  at  the  end,  he  said, 
"I  am  glad  she  is  to  be  with  you,  because  you 
really  apreciate  her." 

The  one  "p"  in  "appreciate"  fairly  broke  Jan 
down.  It  was  so  like  Miles. 

Meg,  white-faced  and  taciturn,  went  back  to 
Wren's  End  on  Tuesday  night.  The  Squire  and 
Lady  Mary  remained  in  town. 

In  answer  to  Jan's  affectionate  inquiries,  Meg 
was  brief  and  business-like.  Yes;  she  had  seen 
Miles  several  times.  He  was  very  busy.  No, 
she  did  not  expect  to  see  him  again  before  .  .  . 
he  left.  Yes;  he  was  going  with  the  First  Army. 

Jan  asked  no  more  questions,  but  was  quietly, 
355 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

consistently  kind.  Meg  was  adorable  with  her 
children  and  surpassed  herself  in  the  telling  of 
stories. 

The  First  Army  left  England  for  Flanders  with 
the  silence  of  a  shadow. 

But  Meg  knew  when  it  left. 

That  night,  Jan  woke  about  one  o'clock,  con- 
scious of  a  queer  sound  that  she  could  neither 
define  nor  locate. 

She  sat  up  in  bed  to  listen,  and  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  it  came  from  the  day-nursery, 
which  was  below  her  room. 

Tony  was  sleeping  peacefully.  Jan  put  on  her 
dressing-gown  and  went  downstairs.  The  nursery 
door  was  not  shut,  and  a  shaft  of  light  shone 
through  it  into  the  dark  hall.  She  pushed  it 
open  a  little  way  and  looked  in. 

Meg  was  sitting  at  the  table,  making  muslin 
curtains  as  if  her  life  depended  on  it.  She  wore 
her  nightgown,  and  over  it  a  queer  little  Japanese 
kimono  of  the  green  she  loved.  Her  bare  feet  were 
pillowed  upon  William,  who  lay  snoring  peace- 
fully under  the  table. 

Her  face  was  set  and  absorbed.  A  grave,  al- 
most stern,  little  face.  And  her  rumpled  hair, 
pushed  back  from  her  forehead,  gave  her  the  look 
of  a  Botticelli  boy  angel.  It  seemed  to  merge 
into  tongues  of  flame  where  the  lamplight  caught 
it. 

The  window  was  wide  open  and  the  sudden 
opening  of  the  door  caused  a  draught,  though  the 
night  was  singularly  still. 

The  lamp  nickered. 

356 


August,  1914 

Meg  rested  her  hand  on  the  handle  of  the  sew- 
ing-machine, and  the  whirring  noise  stopped. 
She  saw  Jan  in  the  doorway. 

"Dear,"  said  Jan  gently,  standing  where  she 
was,  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  door,  "are  you 
obliged  to  do  this?" 

Meg  looked  at  her,  and  the  dumb  pain  in  that 
look  went  to  Jan's  heart. 

Jan  came  towards  her  and  drew  the  flaming 
head  against  her  breast. 

"I'm  sorry  I  disturbed  you,"  Meg  murmured, 
"but  I  was  obliged  to  do  something." 

William  stirred  at  the  voices,  and  turning  his 
head  tried  to  lick  the  little  bare  feet  resting  on  his 
back. 

"Dearest,  I  really  think  you  should  go  back  to 
bed." 

"Very  well,"  said  Meg  meekly.     "I'll  go  now." 

"He,"  Jan  continued,  "would  be  very  angry  if 
he  thought  you  were  making  curtains  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night." 

"He,"  Meg  retorted,  "is  absurd — and  dear  be- 
yond all  human  belief." 

"You  see,  he  left  you  in  my  charge  .  .  .  what 
will  he  say  if — when  he  comes  back — he  finds  a 
haggard  Meg  with  a  face  like  a  threepenny-bit  that 
has  seen  much  service?" 

"All  right,  I'm  coming." 

When  Meg  got  back  to  her  room,  she  went  and 
leaned  over  little  Fay  sleeping  in  the  cot  beside  her 
bed.  Rosy  and  beautiful,  warm  and  fragrant,  the 
healthy  baby  brought  comfort  to  Meg's  stricken 
heart. 

357 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

Perhaps — who  knows — the  tramp  of  that  silent 
army  sounded  in  little  Fay's  ears,  for  she  stretched 
out  her  dimpled  arms  and  caught  Meg  round  the 
neck. 

"Deah  Med!"  she  sighed,  and  was  still. 

William  stood  at  attention. 

Presently  Meg  knelt  down  by  her  bed,  and 
according  to  the  established  ritual  he  thrust  his 
head  into  her  encircling  arm. 

"Pray  for  your  master,  William,"  Meg  whis- 
pered. "Oh,  William,  pray  for  your  master  as 
you  never  prayed  before." 


The  strange  tense  days  went  on  in  August 
weather  serene  and  lovely  as  had  not  been  seen 
for  years.  Young  men  vanished  from  the  coun- 
try-side and  older  men  wistfully  wondered  what 
they  could  do  to  help. 

Peter  came  down  from  Saturday  to  Monday, 
telling  them  that  every  officer  and  every  civilian 
serving  hi  India  was  recalled,  but  he  had  not  yet 
learned  when  he  was  to  sail. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  wrens'  garden  with  the 
children. 

"Barley's  going,"  Tony  said  importantly. 

"Earley!"  Jan  exclaimed.     "Going  where?" 

"To  fight,  of  course,"  little  Fay  chimed  in. 

"Oh,  poor  dear  Earley!"  Jan  sighed. 

"Happy,  fortunate  Earley,"  said  Peter.  "I 
wish  I  stood  in  his  shoes." 

Earley  joined  the  Gloucesters  because,  he  said, 
"he  couldn't  abear  to  think  of  them  there  Ger- 

358 


August,  1914 

mans  comin'  anigh  Mother  and  them  childring 
and  the  ladies;  and  he'd  better  go  and  see  as  they 
didn't." 

Mr.  Withells  called  the  men  on  his  place  together 
and  told  them  that  every  man  who  joined  would 
have  his  wages  paid  to  his  wife,  and  his  wife  or  his 
mother,  as  the  case  might  be,  could  stop  on  in  her 
cottage.  And  Mr.  Withells  became  a  special  con- 
stable, with  a  badge  and  a  truncheon.  But  he 
worried  every  soldier  that  he  knew  with  inquiries 
as  to  whether  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  him  in 
some  battalion:  "I've  taken  great  care  of  my 
health,"  he  said.  "I  do  exercises  every  day  after 
my  bath;  I'm  young-looking  for  my  age,  don't  you 
think?  And  anyway,  a  bullet  might  find  me  in- 
stead of  a  more  useful  man." 

No  one  laughed  then  at  Mr.  Withells  and  his 
exercises. 

Five  days  after  the  declaration  of  war  Jan  got  a 
letter  from  Hugo  Tancred.  He  was  in  London 
and  was  already  a  private  in  a  rather  famous 
cavalry  regiment. 

"They  didn't  ask  many  questions,"  he  wrote, 
"so  I  hadn't  to  tell  many  hes.  You  see,  I  can  ride 
well  and  understand  horses.  If  I  get  knocked 
out,  it  won't  be  much  loss,  and  I  know,  you'll 
look  after  Fay's  kiddies.  If  I  come  through,  per- 
haps I  can  make  a  fresh  start  somewhere.  I've 
always  been  fond  of  a  gamble,  and  this  is  the 
biggest  gamble  I've  ever  struck." 

Jan  showed  the  letter  to  Peter,  who  gave  it 
back  to  her  with  something  like  a  groan:  "Even 
the  wrong  'uns  get  their  chance,  and  yet  I  have  to 

359 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

go  back  and  do  a  deadly  dull  job,  just  because  it 
is  my  job." 

Peter  went  up  to  town  and  two  days  after  came 
down  again  to  "The  Green  Hart"  to  say  good-bye. 
He  had  got  his  marching  orders  and  was  to  sail 
in  the  Somali  from  Southampton.  Some  fifteen 
hundred  civilians  and  officers  serving  in  India 
were  sailing  by  that  boat  and  the  Dongola. 

By  every  argument  he  could  bring  forward  he 
tried  to  get  Jan  to  marry  him  before  he  sailed. 
Yet  just  because  she  wanted  to  do  it  so  much, 
she  held  back.  She,  too,  she  kept  telling  herself, 
had  her  job,  and  she  knew  that  if  she  was  Peter's 
wife,  nothing,  not  even  her  dear  Fay's  children, 
could  be  of  equal  importance  with  Peter. 

The  children  and  Meg  and  the  household  had 
by  much  thinking  grown  into  a  sort  of  Franken- 
stein's monster  of  duty. 

Her  attitude  was  incomprehensible  to  Peter. 
It  seemed  to  him  to  be  wrong-headed  and  ab- 
surd, and  he  began  to  lose  patience  with  her. 

On  his  last  morning  he  sought  and  found  her 
beside  the  sun-dial  in  the  wrens'  garden. 

Meg  had  taken  little  Fay  to  see  Lady  Mary's 
Persian  kittens,  but  Tony  preferred  to  potter 
about  the  garden  with  the  aged  man  who  was 
trying  to  replace  Earley.  William  was  not  al- 
lowed to  call  upon  the  kittens,  as  Fatima,  their 
mother,  objected  to  him  vehemently,  and  Tony 
cared  to  go  nowhere  if  William  might  not  be  of 
the  party. 

Peter  came  to  Jan  and  took  both  her  hands 
and  held  them. 

360 


August,  1914 

"It's  the  last  time  I  shall  ask  you,  my  dear. 
If  you  care  enough,  we  can  have  these  last  days 
together.  If  you  don't  I  must  go,  for  I  can't  bear 
any  more  of  this.  Either  you  love  me  enough  to 
marry  me  before  I  sail  or  you  don't  love  me  at 
all.  Which  is  it?" 

"I  do  love  you,  you  know  I  do." 

"Well,  which  is  it  to  be?" 

"Peter,  dear,  you  must  give  me  more  time.  I 
haven't  really  faced  it  all.  I  can't  do  anything 
in  such  a  hurry  as  that." 

Peter  looked  at  her  and  shook  his  head. 

"You  don't  know  what  caring  is,"  he  said. 
"I  can't  stand  any  more  of  this.  Do  you  see  that 
motto  on  the  sun-dial:  'I  bide  my  time' — I've 
read  it  and  read  it,  and  I've  said  it  over  to  myself 
and  waited  and  hoped  to  move  you.  Now  I 
can't  wait  any  more." 

He  kissed  her,  dropped  her  hand,  and  turning 
from  her  went  out  through  the  iron  gate  and  down 
the  drive.  For  a  moment  Jan  stood  by  the  sun- 
dial as  though  she,  too,  were  stone. 

Then  blindly  she  went  up  the  steps  into  the 
empty  nursery  and  sat  down  on  an  old  sofa  far 
back  in  the  room.  She  leaned  face-downward 
against  the  cushions,  and  great,  tearing  sobs  broke 
from  her. 

Peter  was  gone.  He  would  never  come  back. 
She  had  driven  him  from  her.  And  having  done 
so  she  realised  that  he  was  the  one  person  in  the 
world  she  could  not  possibly  do  without. 

Tony's  own  hen  had  laid  an  egg.  Carrying  it 
very  carefully  in  a  cabbage-leaf,  he  went,  accom- 

361 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

panied  by  the  faithful  William,  to  show  it  to 
Auntie  Jan,  and  was  just  in  time  to  see  Peter 
going  down  the  drive. 

He  went  through  the  wrens'  garden  and  in  by 
the  window.  For  a  moment  he  didn't  see  his 
aunt;  and  was  turning  to  go  again  when  a  strange 
sound  arrested  him,  and  he  saw  her  all  huddled 
up  at  the  head  of  the  sofa,  with  hidden  face  and 
heaving  shoulders. 

He  laid  his  egg  on  the  table  and  went  and 
pulled  at  her  arm. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked  anxiously. 
"And  why  has  Peter  gone?" 

Jan  raised  her  head;  pride  and  shame  and  self- 
consciousness  were  dead  in  her:  "He's  gone,"  she 
sobbed.  "He  won't  come  back,  and  I  shall  never 
be  happy  any  more,"  and  down  went  her  head 
again  on  her  locked  arms. 

Tony  did  not  attempt  to  console  her.  He  ran 
from  the  room,  and  Jan  felt  that  this  was  only  an 
added  pang  of  abandonment. 

Down  the  drive  ran  Tony,  with  William  gal- 
umphing beside  him.  But  William  was  not  happy, 
and  squealed  softly  from  time  to  time.  He  felt 
it  unkind  to  leave  a  poor  lady  crying  like  that,  and 
yet  was  constrained  to  go  with  Tony  because  Meg 
had  left  him  in  William's  charge. 

Tony  turned  out  of  the  gate  and  into  the  road. 

Far  away  in  the  distance  was  a  man's  figure 
striding  along  with  incredible  swiftness.  Tony 
started  to  run  all  he  knew.  Now,  seldom  as  Wil- 
liam barked,  he  barked  when  people  ran,  and 
William's  bark  was  so  deep  and  sonorous  and  dis- 

362 


August,  1914 

tinctive  that  it  caused  the  swiftly  striding  man 
to  turn  his  head.  He  turned  his  body,  too,  and 
came  back  to  meet  Tony  and  William. 

Tony  was  puffed  and  almost  breathless,  but  he 
managed  to  jerk  out:  "You  must  go  back;  she's 
.  .  .  crying  dreadful.  You  must  go  back.  Go 
quick;  don't  wait  for  us." 

Peter  went. 

Jan  very  rarely  cried.  When  she  did  it  hurt 
fiercely  and  absorbed  all  her  attention.  She  was 
crying  now  as  if  she  would  never  stop.  If  people 
seldom  cry  it  has  a  devastating  effect  on  their 
appearance  when  they  do.  Jan's  eyelids  were 
swollen,  her  nose  scarlet  and  shiny,  her  features 
all  bleared  and  blurred  and  almost  scarred  by 
tears. 

Someone  touched  her  gently  on  the  shoulder, 
and  she  looked  up. 

"My  dear,"  said  Peter,  "you  must  not  cry  like 
this.  I  was  losing  my  temper — that's  why  I  went 
off." 

Jan  sprang  to  her  feet  and  flung  her  arms  round 
his  neck.  She  pressed  her  ravaged  face  against 
his:  "I'll  do  anything  you  like,"  she  whispered, 
"if  you'll  only  like  it.  I  can't  stand  by  myself 
any  more." 

This  was  true,  for  as  she  spoke  her  knees  gave 
under  her. 

Peter  held  her  close.  Never  had  Jan  looked 
less  attractive  and  never  had  Peter  loved  her 
more,  or  realised  so  clearly  how  dear  and  foolish 
and  wise  and  womanly  she  was. 

363 


Jan  and  Her  Job 

"You  see,"  she  sobbed,  "you  said  yourself 
everyone  must  do  his  job,  and  I  thought — 

"But  surely,"  said  Peter,  "I  am  your  job — part 
of  it,  anyway." 

Jan  sobbed  now  more  quietly,  with  her  head 
against  his  shoulder. 

Tony  and  William  came  and  looked  in  at  the 
window. 

His  aunt  was  still  crying,  crying  hard,  though 
Peter  was  there  close  beside  her,  very  close  indeed. 

Surely  this  was  most  unreasonable. 

"She  said,"  Tony  remarked  accusingly  to  Peter, 
"she  was  crying  because  you  had  gone,  so  I  ran 
to  fetch  you  back.  And  now  I  have  fetched  you, 
she's  crying  worse  nor  ever." 

But  William  Bloomsbury  knew  better.  Wil- 
liam had  cause  to  know  the  solitary  bitter  tears 
that  hurt.  These  tears  were  different. 

So  William  wagged  his  tail  and  ran  into  the 
room,  jumping  joyously  on  Peter  and  Jan. 


364 


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